Ger. I can't sing: but I'll hum, if you will.
Don. Are you so merry? well I'll be with you: en hora mala!
Mrs. Caut. O niece, niece! why niece! oh—
Don. Why, daughter, my dainty daughter! My shame! my ruin! my plague! [Struggling, gets from Mrs. Caution, goes towards them with his sword drawn.
Hip. Mind him not, but dance and sing on.
Ger. A pretty time to dance and sing, indeed, when I have a Spaniard with a naked Toledo at my tail! No, pray excuse me, miss, from fooling any longer.
Hip. [Turning about.] O, my father, my father! poor father! you are welcome; pray give me your blessing.
Don. My blessing, en hora mala!
Hip. What! am I not your daughter, sir?