Mons. Auh! tête bleu!—an Englis catch! fy! fy! ventre!—
Ger. He can sing no damned French song.
Mons. Nor can I drink the damned Englis wine. [Sets down the glass.
Ger. Yes, to that lady's health, who has commanded me to wait upon her to-morrow at her window, which looks (you say) into the inward yard of the Ship tavern, near the end of what-d'ye-call't street.
Mons. Ay, ay; do you not know her? not you! vert bleu!
Ger. But, pray repeat again what she said.
Mons. Why, she said she is to be married to-morrow to a person of honour, a brave gentleman, that shall be nameless, and so, and so forth.—[Aside.] Little does he think who 'tis!
Ger. And what else?
Mons. That if you make not your appearance before her window to-morrow at your wonted hour of six in the morning, to forbid the banns, you must for ever hereafter stay away and hold your tongue; for 'tis the first and last time of asking.—Ha! ha! ha!