_Don Jer_.
You're a knave and a sot, and this place you'd best fly.

_Isaac_. Don Jerome, come now, let us lay aside all joking, and be
serious.

_Don Jer_. How?

_Isaac_. Ha! ha! ha! I'll be hanged if you haven't taken my abuse of
your daughter seriously.

_Don Jer_. You meant it so, did not you?

_Isaac_. O mercy, no! a joke--just to try how angry it would make you.

_Don Jer_. Was that all, i'faith? I didn't know you had been such a
wag. Ha! ha! ha! By St. Iago! you made me very angry, though. Well,
and you do think Louisa handsome?

_Isaac_. Handsome! Venus de Medicis was a sybil to her.

_Don Jer_. Give me your hand, you little jocose rogue! Egad, I thought
we had been all off.

_Don Ferd_. [_Aside_.] So! I was in hopes this would have been a
quarrel; but I find the Jew is too cunning.

_Don Jer_. Ay, this gust of passion has made me dry--I am seldom
ruffled. Order some wine in the next room--let us drink the poor