_Don. Louisa_. Isaac, tricking is all fair in love--let you alone for
the plot!
_Don Ant_. A cunning dog, ar'n't you? A sly little villain, eh?
_Don. Louisa_. Roguish, perhaps; but keen, devilish keen!
_Don Jer_. Yes, yes; his aunt always called him little Solomon.
_Isaac_. Why, the plagues of Egypt upon you all! but do you think I'll
submit to such an imposition?
_Don Ant_. Isaac, one serious word--you'd better be content as you
are; for, believe me, you will find that, in the opinion of the world,
there is not a fairer subject for contempt and ridicule than a knave
become the dupe of his own art.
_Isaac_. I don't care--I'll not endure this. Don Jerome, 'tis you have
done this--you would be so cursed positive about the beauty of her you
locked up, and all the time I told you she was as old as my mother,
and as ugly as the devil.
_Duen_. Why, you little insignificant reptile!----
_Don Jer_. That's right!--attack him, Margaret.
_Duen_. Dare such a thing as you pretend to talk of beauty?--A walking
rouleau?--a body that seems to owe all its consequence to the dropsy!
a pair of eyes like two dead beetles in a wad of brown dough! a beard
like an artichoke, with dry, shrivelled jaws that would disgrace the
mummy of a monkey?
_Don Jer_.
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