Enter Antonio.
Ant. (to Walt.) Good morning, gentle Kinsman;—but methinks you are not very glad to see me; these are not looks of welcome.
Walt. Thou art one of those that trouble me.
Ant. I am of a pretty numerous class of beings then, from the kitten that gnaws at your shoestring, to the Baron, who spoils your best pen in writing love-verses to his mistress.
Walt. Well; and they would torment any man. Love-verses! with such an old painted hypocrite for the object of them!
Ant. His first love, you know; his Delia.
Walt. His Delia! His delusion. Is there such a thing as witchcraft in the world? I believe in good earnest there is. Her dominion over him is a mystery: a more than Egyptian blindness.
Ant. Nay, you have yourself in a good degree to blame for it, my good Sir. Had you encouraged his humour, harmless as it is; bestowing some praise on his verses, and less abuse on the too youthful cut of his peruke, she could never have taken possession of him as she has done.
Walt. Praise his verses, and not abuse his peruke! it had been beyond the self-denial of a saint.
Dart. And had you—
Walt. (to Dart.) One assailant at a time, if you please.
