_Don Jer_.
Reach me the blunderbuss.

_Don Ant_. & _Don. Louisa_.
The god of love, who knows our pain--

_Don Jer_.
Hence, or these slugs are through your brain.

[_Exeunt severally_.]




SCENE II--_A Piazza_.

_Enter_ DON FERDINAND _and_ LOPEZ.

_Lop_. Truly, sir, I think that a little sleep once in a week or so---

_Don Ferd_. Peace, fool! don't mention sleep to me.

_Lop_. No, no, sir, I don't mention your lowbred, vulgar, sound sleep;
but I can't help thinking that a gentle slumber, or half an hour's
dozing, if it were only for the novelty of the thing----

_Don Ferd_. Peace, booby, I say!--Oh, Clara dear, cruel disturber of
my rest!