Sir Jeal. What then you'd speak with his Friend, the English Merchant, Mr. Meanwell.
Marpl. Neither, Sir; not I.
Sir Jeal. Why who are you then, Sir? and what do you want?
(In an angry Tone.
Marpl. Nay, nothing at all, not I, Sir. Pox on him! I wish I were out, he begins to exalt his Voice, I shall be beaten agen.
Sir Jeal. Nothing at all, Sir! Why then what Business have you in my House? ha?
Serv. You said you wanted a Gentleman in Spanish Habit.
Marpl. Why ay, but his Name is neither Barbinetto nor Meanwell.
Sir Jeal. What is his Name then, Sirrah, ha? Now I look at you agen, I believe you are the Rogue threaten'd me with half a Dozen Mirmidons— Speak, Sir, who is it you look for? or, or—
Marpl. A terrible old Dog!— Why, Sir, only an honest young Fellow of my Acquaintance— I thought that here might be a Ball, and that he might have been here in a Masquerade; 'tis Charles, Sir Francis Gripe's Son, because I know he us'd to come hither sometimes.