Don Ant. Isaac, one serious word—you'd better be content as you are; for, believe me, you will find that, in the opinion of the world, there is not a fairer subject for contempt and ridicule than a knave become the dupe of his own art.
Isaac. I don't care—I'll not endure this. Don Jerome, 'tis you have done this—you would be so cursed positive about the beauty of her you locked up, and all the time I told you she was as old as my mother, and as ugly as the devil.
Duen. Why, you little insignificant reptile!——
Don Jer. That's right!—attack him, Margaret.
Duen. Dare such a thing as you pretend to talk of beauty?—A walking rouleau?—a body that seems to owe all its consequence to the dropsy! a pair of eyes like two dead beetles in a wad of brown dough! a beard like an artichoke, with dry, shrivelled jaws that would disgrace the mummy of a monkey?
Don Jer. Well done, Margaret!
Duen. But you shall know that I have a brother who wears a sword— and, if you don't do me justice—
Isaac. Fire seize your brother, and you too! I'll fly to Jerusalem to avoid you!
Duen. Fly where you will, I'll follow you.
Don Jer. Throw your snowy arms about him, Margaret.—[Exeunt ISAAC and DUENNA.] But, Louisa, are you really married to this modest gentleman?