Mons. Non, non—
Hip. Upon the word of a gentleman?
Mons. Foi de chevalier, I will not quarrel.
Prue. Lord, miss! I wonder you won't believe him without more ado.
Hip. Then he has the hatred of a rival for you.
Mons. Malepeste!
Hip. You know my chamber is backward, and has a door into the gallery which looks into the back yard of a tavern, whence Mr. Gerrard once spying me at the window, has often since attempted to come in at that window by the help of the leads of a low building adjoining; and, indeed, 'twas as much as my maid and I could do to keep him out.
Mons. Ah, le coquin!—
Hip. But nothing is stronger than aversion; for I hate him perfectly, even as much as I love you—
Prue. I believe so, faith!—but what design have we now on foot? [Aside.