Mons. Another time, another time, Prue; prithee begone.
Prue. Nay, I beseech your worship hear me.
Mons. No; prithee begone.
Prue. [Aside.] Nay, I am e'en well enough served for not speaking my mind when I had an opportunity.—Well, I must be playing the modest woman, forsooth! a woman's hypocrisy in this case does only deceive herself. [Exit.
Mons. O, the brave dancing master! the fine dancing-master! Your servant, your servant.
Ger. Your servant sir: I protest I did not know you at first—[Aside.] I am afraid this fool should spoil all, notwithstanding Hippolita's care and management; yet I ought to trust her:—but a secret is more safe with a treacherous knave than a talkative fool.
Mons. Come, sir, you must know a little brother dancing-master of yours—walking master I should have said; for he teaches me to walk and make legs, by-the-bye. Pray, know him, sir; salute him, sir.—You Christian dancing-masters are so proud.
Ger. But, monsieur, what strange metamorphosis is this? You look like a Spaniard, and talk like an Englishman again, which I thought had been impossible.
Mons. Nothing impossible to love: I must do't, or lose my mistress, your pretty scholar; for 'tis I am to have her. You may remember I told you she was to be married to a great man, a man of honour and quality.