Don. O, might he so, forsooth! you are a brave governante! Look you, you a duenna, voto!—and not know who comes in and out!
Mrs. Caut So! 'tis my fault, I know.
Don. Your maid was in the room with you; was she not, child?
Hip. Yes, indeed, and indeed, father, all the while.
Don. Well, child, I am satisfied then.—But I hope he does not use the dancing-master's tricks, of squeezing your hands, setting your legs and feet, by handling your thighs and seeing your legs.
Hip. No, indeed, father: I'd give him a box on the ear if he should.
Don. Poor innocent!—Well, I am contented you should learn to dance, since, for aught I know, you shall be married to-morrow, or the next day at farthest: by that time you may recover a corant—a saraband I would say.[59] And since your cousin, too, will have a dancing wife, it shall be so; and I'll see you dance myself. You shall be my charge these two days, and then I dare venture you in the hand of any dancing-master, even a saucy French dancing-master, look you.
Mrs. Caut. Well, have a care, though; for this man is not dressed like a dancing master.
Don. Go, go, you dote; are they not (for the most part) better dressed and prouder than many a good gentleman? you would be wiser than I, would you, cuerno?
Mrs. Caut. Well, I say only, look to't, look to't.