MASC. Listen. This is, without any compliments...

CEL. What?

MASC. The last scene of a true and genuine comedy. The old gipsy-woman
was, but this very moment...

CEL. Well?

MASC. Crossing the market-place, thinking about nothing at all, when
another old woman, very haggard-looking, after having closely stared at
her for some time, hoarsely broke out in a torrent of abusive language,
and thus gave the signal for a furious combat, in which, instead of
swords, muskets, daggers, or arrows, nothing was seen but four withered
paws, brandished in the air, with which these two combatants endeavoured
to tear off the little flesh old age had left on their bones. Not a word
was heard but drab, wretch, trull. Their caps, to begin with, were
flying about, and left a couple of bald pates exposed to view, which
rendered the battle ridiculously horrible. At the noise and hubbub,
Andres and Trufaldin, as well as many others, ran to see what was the
matter, and had much ado to part them, so excited were they by passion.
Meanwhile each of them, when the storm was abated, endeavoured to hide
her head with shame. Everybody wished to know the cause of this
ridiculous fray. She who first began it having, notwithstanding the
warmth of her passion, looked for some time at Trufaldin, said in a loud
voice,--"It is you, unless my sight misgives me, who, I was informed,
lived privately in this town; most happy meeting! Yes, Signor Zanobio
Ruberti, fortune made me find you out at the very moment I was giving
myself so much trouble for your sake. When you left your family at