Mrs. Caut. No, not so much as a churchman.
Don. As a churchman! voto! I thank you for that; not a churchman! not a churchman!
Mrs. Caut. No, not so much as a churchman; but of any, one would think one might trust a churchman.
Don. No, we are bold enough in trusting them with our souls, I'll never trust them with the body of my daughter, look you, guarda! You see what comes of trusting churchmen here in England; and 'tis because the women govern the families, that chaplains are so much in fashion. Trust a churchman!—trust a coward with your honour, a fool with your secret, a gamester with your purse, as soon as a priest with your wife or daughter; look you, guarda! I am no fool, look you.
Mrs. Caut. Nay, I know you are a wise man, brother.
Don. Why, sister, I have been fifteen years in Spain for it, at several times, look you: now in Spain, he is wise enough that is grave, politic enough that says little, and honourable enough that is jealous; and though I say it, that should not say it, I am as grave, grum, and jealous, as any Spaniard breathing.
Mrs. Caut. I know you are, brother.
Don. And will be a Spaniard in everything still, and will not conform, not I, to their ill-favoured English customs, for I will wear my Spanish habit still, I will stroke my Spanish whiskers still, and I will eat my Spanish olio still; and my daughter shall go a maid to her husband's bed, let the English custom be what 'twill: I would fain see any finical, cunning, insinuating monsieur of the age, debauch, or steal away my daughter. But, well, has she seen my cousin? how long has he been in England?
Mrs. Caut. These three days.