Mons. Thank you, I vow and swear, cousin; no, no, I never thought I should.
Ger. Sure you marry him by the sage maxim of your sex, which is, wittols make the best husbands, that is, cuckolds.
Hip. Indeed, master, whatsoever you think, I would sooner choose you for that purpose than him.
Mons. Ha! ha! ha! there she was with him, i'faith;—I thank you for that, cousin, I vow and swear.
Hip. Nay, he shall thank me for that too:—but how came you two to quarrel? I thought, cousin, you had had more wit than to quarrel, or more kindness for me than to quarrel here. What if my father, hearing the bustle, should have come in? he would have soon discovered our false dancing-master (for passion unmasks every man), and then the result of your quarrel had been my ruin.
Mons. Nay, you had both felt his desperate deadly daunting dagger:—there are your d's for you!
Hip. Go, go presently, therefore, and hinder my father from coming in, whilst I put my master into a better humour, that we may not be discovered, to the prevention of our wedding, or worse when he comes; go, go.
Mons. Well, well, I will, cousin.
Hip. Be sure you let him not come in this good while.
Mons. No, no, I warrant you.—[Goes out and returns.]—But if he should come before I would have him, I'll come before him, and cough and hawk soundly, that you may not be surprised. Won't that do well, cousin?