Don. You are a rash young man; and while you wear pantaloons, you are beneath my passion, voto—auh—they make thee look and waddle (with all those gewgaw ribbons) like a great, old, fat, slovenly water dog.
Mons. And your Spanish hose, and your nose in the air, make you look like a great, grizzled, long Irish greyhound reaching a crust off from a high shelf, ha! ha! ha!
Don. Bueno! bueno!
Mrs. Caut. What, have you a mind to ruin yourself and break off the match?
Mons. Pshaw—wat do you tell me of the matche! d'ye tinke I will not vindicate pantaloons, morbleu!
Don. [Aside.] Well, he is a lost young man, I see, and desperately far gone in the epidemic malady of our nation, the affectation of the worst of French vanities: but I must be wiser than him, as I am a Spaniard. Look you, Don Diego, and endeavour to reclaim him by art and fair means, look you, Don Diego; if not, he shall never marry my daughter, look you, Don Diego, though he be my own sister's son, and has two thousand five hundred seventy-three pounds sterling, twelve shillings and twopence a year pennyrent, seguramente!—[To Monsieur.] Come, young man, since you are so obstinate, we will refer our difference to arbitration; your mistress, my daughter, shall be umpire betwixt us, concerning Spanish hose and pantaloons.
Mons. Pantaloons and Spanish hose, s'il vous plait.
Don. Your mistress is the fittest judge of your dress, sure.
Mons. I know ver vel dat most of the jeunesse of England will not change de ribband upon de crevat without de consultation of dere maîtresse; but I am no Anglais, da—nor shall I make de reference of my dress to any in the universe, da—I judge by any in England! tête non! I would not be judge by any English looking-glass, jarni!
Don. Be not positivo, young man.