Vio. Yes.

Lau. I like him strangely.  If his person were joined with Benito’s wit, I know not what would become of my poor heart.

  Enter FABIO, and whispers with MARIO.

Mar. Stay, nieces, I’ll but speak a word with Fabio, and go with you immediately.

Vio. I see, sister, you are infinitely taken with Benito’s wit; but I have heard he is a very conceited coxcomb.

Lau. They, who told you so, were horribly mistaken.  You shall be judge yourself, Violetta; for, to confess frankly to you, I have made him a kind of an appointment.

Vio. How! have you made an assignation to Benito?  A serving-man! a trencher-carrying rascal!

Lau. Good words, Violetta!  I only sent to him from an unknown lady near this chapel, that I might view him in passing by, and see if his person were answerable to his conversation.

Vio. But how will you get rid of my uncle?

Lau. You see my project; his man Fabio is bribed by me, to hold him in discourse.

  Enter BENITO, looking about him.

Vio. In my conscience this is he.  Lord, what a monster of a man is there! with such a workiday rough-hewn face too! for, faith, heaven has not bestowed the finishing upon it.

Lau. It is impossible this should be Benito; yet he stalks this way.  From such a piece of animated timber, sweet heaven deliver me!

Ben. [Aside.] This must of necessity be the lady who is in love with me.  See, how she surveys my person! certainly one wit knows another by instinct.  By that old gentleman, it should be the lady Laura too.  Hum!  Benito, thou art made for ever.

Lau. He has the most unpromising face, for a wit, I ever saw; and yet he had need have a very good one, to make amends for his face.  I am half cured of him already.

Ben. What means all this surveying, madam?  You bristle up to me, and wheel about me, like a turkey-cock that is making love:  Faith, how do you like my person, ha?

Lau. I dare not praise it, for fear of the old compliment, that you should tell me, it is at my service.  But, pray, is your name Benito?

Ben. Signior Benito, at your service, madam.

Lau. And have you no brother, or any other of your name; one that is a wit, attending on signior Aurelian?

Ben. No, I can assure your ladyship; I myself am the only wit, who does him the honour,—­not to attend him, but—­to bear him company.

Lau. But sure it was another you, that waited on Camillo in the garden, last night?

Ben. It was no other me, but me signior Benito.

Lau. ’Tis impossible.

Ben. ’Tis most certain.

Lau. Then I would advise you to go thither again, and look for the wit which you have left there, for you have brought very little along with you.  Your voice, methinks, too, is much altered.