BER. Well, brother! What is the matter? How are you?

ARG. Ah! very bad, brother; very bad.

BER. How is that?

ARG. No one would believe how very feeble I am.

BER. That's a sad thing, indeed.

ARG. I have hardly enough strength to speak.

BER. I came here, brother, to propose a match for my niece, Angelique.

ARG. (_in a rage, speaking with great fury, and starting up from his
chair_). Brother, don't speak to me of that wicked, good-for-nothing,
insolent, brazen-faced girl. I will put her in a convent before two days
are over.

BER. Ah! all right! I am glad to see that you have a little strength
still left, and that my visit does you good. Well, well, we will talk
of business by-and-by. I have brought you an entertainment, which will
dissipate your melancholy, and will dispose you better for what we
have to talk about. They are gipsies dressed in Moorish clothes. They
perform some dances mixed with songs, which, I am sure, you will like,
and which will be as good as a prescription from Mr. Purgon. Come
along.