Mrs. Caut. Is he a dancing-master? He does not look like a dancing-master.
Hip. Pish!—you don't know a dancing-master: you have not seen one these threescore years, I warrant.
Mrs. Caut. No matter: but he does not look like a dancing-master.
Don. Nay, nay, dancing-masters look like gentlemen enough, sister: but he's no dancing-master, by drawing a sword so briskly. Those tripping outsides of gentlemen are like gentlemen enough in everything but in drawing a sword; and since he is a gentleman, he shall die by mine. [They fight again.
Hip. Oh! hold! hold!
Mrs. Caut. Hold! hold!—Pray, brother, let's talk with him a little first; I warrant you I shall trap him; and if he confesses, you may kill him; but those that confess, they say, ought to be hanged—Let's see—
Ger. Poor Hippolita! I wish I had not had this occasion of admiring thy wit; I have increased my love, whilst I have lost my hopes; the common fate of poor lovers. [Aside.
Mrs. Caut. Come, you are guilty, by that hanging down of your head. Speak: are you a dancing-master? Speak, speak; a dancing-master?
Ger. Yes, forsooth, I am a dancing-master; ay, ay—