Isaac. Her husband! why, you old witch, do you think I'll be your husband now? This is a trick, a cheat! and you ought all to be ashamed of yourselves.
Don Ant. Hark ye, Isaac, do you dare to complain of tricking? Don Jerome, I give you my word, this cunning Portuguese has brought all this upon himself, by endeavouring to overreach you, by getting your daughter's fortune, without making any settlement in return.
Don Jer. Overreach me!
Don. Louisa. 'Tis so, indeed, sir, and we can prove it to you.
Don Jer. Why, Gad, take me, it must be so, or he never could put up with such a face as Margaret's—so, little Solomon, I wish you joy of your wife, with all my soul.
Don. Louisa. Isaac, tricking is all fair in love—let you alone for the plot!
Don Ant. A cunning dog, ar'n't you? A sly little villain, eh?
Don. Louisa. Roguish, perhaps; but keen, devilish keen!
Don Jer. Yes, yes; his aunt always called him little Solomon.
Isaac. Why, the plagues of Egypt upon you all! but do you think I'll submit to such an imposition?