Hip. This discovery is an argument, sure, of my love to you.
Mons. Ay, ay, say no more, cousin, I doubt not your amour for me, because I doubt not your judgment. But what's to be done with this fanfaron?—I know where he eats to-night—I'll go find him out, ventre bleu!—
Hip. O, my dear cousin, you will not make a quarrel of it? I thought what your promise would come to!
Mons. Would you have a man of honour—
Hip. Keep his promise?
Mons. And lose his mistress?—That were not for my honour, ma foi!
Hip. Cousin, though you do me the injury to think I could be false, do not do yourself the injury to think any one could be false to you. Will you be afraid of losing your mistress? To show such a fear to your rival, were for his honour, and not for yours, sure.
Mons. Nay, cousin, I'd have you know I was never afraid of losing my mistress in earnest.—Let me see the man can get my mistress from me, jarni!—But he that loves must seem a little jealous.
Hip. Not to his rival: those that have jealousy hide it from their rivals.
Mons. But there are some who say, jealousy is no more to be hid than a cough:—but it should never be discovered in me, if I had it, because it is not French at all—ventre bleu!