Gas. You shall pardon me; I must wait upon my son. [Exit.
Lor. Do you hear, signior? A pretty preferment!
Lio. O sir, the lustre of good clothes or breeding,
Bestow'd upon a son, will make a rustic
Or a mechanic father to commit
Idolatry, and adore his own issue.
Ang. They are so well match'd, 'twere pity to part them.
Lor. Well said, little one,
I think thou art wiser than both of them.
But this same scorn I do not so well relish;
A whoreson humorous fantastic novice,
To contemn my daughter! He is not worthy
To bear up her train.
Lio. Or kiss under it.
Will you revenge this injury upon him?
Lor. Revenge! Of all the passions of my blood,
'Tis the most sweet. I should grow fat to think on't,
Could you but promise.
Lio. Will you have patience?
Be rul'd by me, and I will compass it
To your full wish. We'll set a bait afore him,
That he shall seize as sharply as Jove's eagle
Did snatch up Ganymede.
Lor. Do but cast the plot,
I'll prosecute it with as much disgrace
As hatred can suggest.
Lio. Do you see this page, then?