Ger. Come then.—[Aside.] Next to the devil's, the invention of women! They'll no more want an excuse to cheat a father with, than an opportunity to abuse a husband.—[Aloud.] But what do you give me such a damned fiddle with rotten strings, for? [Winds up the strings till they break, and throws the violin on the ground.
Don. Hey-day! the dancing-master is frantic.
Mons. Ha! ha! ha! That people should be made such fools of! [Aside.
Mrs. Caut. He broke the strings on purpose, because he could not play.—You are blind, brother.
Don. What! will you see further than I, look you?
Hip. But pray, master, why in such haste? [Gerrard offers to go.
Ger. Because you have done with me.
Don. But don't you intend to come to-morrow, again?
Ger. Your daughter does not desire it.