Lop. No, no, sir, I don't mention your lowbred, vulgar, sound sleep; but I can't help thinking that a gentle slumber, or half an hour's dozing, if it were only for the novelty of the thing——
Don Ferd. Peace, booby, I say!—Oh, Clara dear, cruel disturber of my rest!
Lop. [Aside.] And of mine too.
Don Ferd. 'Sdeath, to trifle with me at such a juncture as this!— now to stand on punctilios!—Love me! I don't believe she ever did.
Lop. [Aside.] Nor I either.
Don Ferd. Or is it, that her sex never know their desires for an hour together?
Lop. [Aside.] Ah, they know them oftener than they'll own them.
Don Ferd. Is there, in the world, so inconsistent a creature as Clara?
Lop. [Aside.] I could name one.
Don Ferd. Yes; the tame fool who submits to her caprice.