_Hip._ Pish!--you don't know a dancing-master: you have not seen one these threescore years, I warrant. _Mrs. Caut._ No matter: but he does not look like a dancing-master. _Don._ Nay, nay, dancing-masters look like gentlemen enough, sister: but he's no dancing-master, by drawing a sword so briskly. Those tripping outsides of gentlemen are like gentlemen enough in everything but in drawing a sword; and since he is a gentleman, he shall die by mine. [_They fight again._ _Hip._ Oh! hold! hold! _Mrs. Caut._ Hold! hold!--Pray, brother, let's talk with him a little first; I warrant you I shall trap him; and if he confesses, you may kill him; but those that confess, they say, ought to be hanged--Let's see-- _Ger._ Poor Hippolita! I wish I had not had this occasion of admiring thy wit; I have increased my love, whilst I have lost my hopes; the common fate of poor lovers. [_Aside._ _Mrs. Caut._ Come, you are guilty, by that hanging down of your head. Speak: are you a dancing-master? Speak, speak; a dancing-master? _Ger._ Yes, forsooth, I am a dancing-master; ay, ay-- _Don._ How does it appear? _Hip._ Why, there is his fiddle, there upon the table, father. _Mrs. Caut._ No, busybody, but it is not:--that is my nephew's fiddle. _Hip._ Why, he lent it to my cousin: I tell you it is his. _Mrs. Caut._ Nay, it may be, indeed; he might lend it to him for aught I know. _Don._ Ay, ay: but ask him, sister, if he be a dancing-master, where. _Mrs. Caut._ Pray, brother, let me alone with him, I know what to ask him, sure. _Don._ What, will you be wiser than I? nay, then stand away. Come, if you are a dancing-master, where's your school? _Donde? donde?_ _Mrs. Caut._ Why, he'll say, may be, he has ne'er a one. _Don._ Who asked you, nimble chaps? So you have put an excuse in his head. _Ger._ Indeed, sir, 'tis no excuse: I have no school. _Mrs. Caut._ Well; but who sent you? how came you hither? _Ger._ There I am puzzled indeed. [_Aside._ _Mrs. Caut._ How came you hither, I say? how-- _Ger._ Why, how, how should I come hither? _Don._ Ay, how should he come hither? Upon his legs. _Mrs. Caut._ So, so! now you have put an excuse in his head too, that you have, so you have; but stay-- _Don._ Nay, with your favour, mistress, I'll ask him now. _Mrs. Caut._ Y'facks, but you shan't! I'll ask him, and ask you no favour, that I will. _Don._ Y'fackins, but you shan't ask him! if you go there too, look you, you prattle-box you, I'll ask him. _Mrs. Caut._ I will ask him, I say!--come! _Don._ Where? _Mrs. Caut._ What! _Don._ Mine's a shrewd question. _Mrs. Caut._ Mine's as shrewd as yours. _Don._ Nay, then, we shall have it.--Come, answer me; where's your lodging? come, come, sir. _Mrs. Caut._ A shrewd question, indeed! at the Surgeons'-arms, I warrant you; for 'tis spring-time, you know. _Don._ Must you make lies for him? _Mrs. Caut._ But come, sir; what's your name?--answer me to that; come.