Mons. Nothing, nothing, cousin, but your presence is a sanctuary for my greatest enemy, or else, tête non!—
Hip. What, you have not hurt my cousin, sir, I hope? [To Gerrard.
Ger. How! she's concerned for him! nay, then I need not doubt, my fears are true. [Aside.
Mons. What was that you said, cousin? hurt me!—ha! ha! ha! hurt me!—if any man hurt me, he must do it basely; he shall ne'er do it when my sword's drawn, sa! sa! sa!
Hip. Because you will ne'er draw your sword, perhaps.
Mons. [Aside.] Scurvily guessed.—[Aloud.] You ladies may say anything; but, cousin, pray do not you talk of swords and fighting; meddle with your guitar, and talk of dancing with your dancing-master there, ha! ha! ha!
Hip. But I am afraid you have hurt my master, cousin:—he says nothing; can he draw his breath?
Mons. No, 'tis you have hurt your master, cousin, in the very heart, cousin, and therefore he would hurt me; for love is a disease makes people as malicious as the plague does.
Hip. Indeed, poor master, something does ail you.