Ger. Dear miss, you but increase my fears, and not my wealth. Pray let us make haste away; I desire but to be secure of you:—come, what are you thinking of?
Hip. I am thinking if some little, filching, inquisitive poet should get my story, and represent it to the stage, what those ladies who are never precise but at a play would say of me now;—that I were a confident, coming piece, I warrant, and they would damn the poor poet for libelling the sex. But sure, though I give myself and fortune away frankly, without the consent of my friends, my confidence is less than theirs who stand off only for separate maintenance.
Ger. They would be widows before their time, have a husband and no husband:—but let us begone, lest fortune should recant my happiness, now you are fixed, my dearest miss. [He kisses her hand.
Re-enter Monsieur, coughing, followed by Don Diego.
Hip. Oh, here's my father!
Don. How now, sir!—What, kissing her hand! what means that, friend, ha?—Daughter, ha! do you permit this insolence, ha? voto á mi honra!
Ger. We are prevented again. [Aside to Hippolita.
Hip. Ha! ha! ha! you are so full of your Spanish jealousy, father; why, you must know he is a city dancing-master, and they, forsooth, think it fine to kiss the hand at the honour before the corant.
Mons. Ay, ay, ay, uncle, don't you know that?
Don. Go to, go to, you are an easy French fool; there's more in it than so, look you.