_Mons._ How, how, how! what do you talk of blessing? what, do you ask your father blessing and he ask me forgiveness? but why should he ask me forgiveness? _Hip._ Because he asks my father's blessing. _Mons._ Pish! pish! I don't understand you, I vow and swear. _Hip._ The parson will expound it to you, cousin. _Mons._ Hey! what say you to it, parson? _Par._ They are married, sir. _Mons._ Married! _Mrs. Caut._ Married! so, I told you what 'twould come to. _Don._ You told us!-- _Mons._ Nay, she is setting up for the reputation of a witch. _Don._ Married!--Juan, Sanchez, Pedro, arm! arm! arm! _Mrs. Caut._ A witch! a witch! _Hip._ Nay, indeed, father, now we are married, you had better call the fiddlers.--Call 'em, Prue, quickly. [_Exit_ PRUE. _Mons._ Who do you say, married, man? _Par._ Was I not sent for on purpose to marry 'em? why should you wonder at it? _Mons._ No, no, you were to marry me, man, to her; I knew there was a mistake in't somehow; you were merely mistaken, therefore you must do your business over again for me now.--The parson was mistaken, uncle, it seems, ha! ha! ha! _Mrs. Caut._ I suppose five or six guineas made him make the mistake, which will not be rectified now, nephew. They'll marry all that come near 'em, and, for a guinea or two, care not what mischief they do, nephew. _Don._ Married!--Pedro! Sanchez! _Mons._ How! and must she be his wife then for ever and ever? have I held the door then for this, like a fool as I was? _Mrs. Caut._ Yes, indeed! _Mons._ Have I worn _golilla_ here for this? little breeches for this? _Mrs. Caut._ Yes, truly. _Mons._ And put on the Spanish honour with the habit, in defending my rival? nay then, I'll have another turn of honour in revenge. Come, uncle, I'm of your side now, sa! sa! sa! but let's stay for our force; Sanchez, Juan, Pedro, arm! arm! arm! _Enter two_ Blacks _and a_ Spaniard, _followed by_ PRUE, MARTIN, _and five other gentlemen-like_ Fiddlers. _Don._ Murder the villain! kill him! [_Running all upon_ GERRARD. _Mar._ Hold! hold! sir! _Don._ How now! who sent for you, friends? _Mar._ We fiddlers, sir, often come unsent for. _Don._ And you are often kicked down stairs for't too. _Mar._ No, sir, our company was never kicked, I think. _Don._ Fiddlers, and not kicked! then to preserve your virgin honour, get you down stairs quickly; for we are not at present disposed much for mirth, _voto!_ _Mons._ [_Peeping._] A pox! is it you, is it you, Martin?--Nay, uncle, then 'tis in vain; for they won't be kicked down stairs, to my knowledge. They are gentlemen fiddlers, forsooth! A pox on all gentlemen fiddlers and gentlemen dancing-masters! say I. _Don._ How! ha! [_Pausing._