Moth. A dear Marrion what wad ye be at? Do ye think that our John wha has a wife o’ his ain, cou’d come an’ wait on her as she were a dame o’ honour, or yet an honest man’s wife, poor silly lown it she is, an’ he had thought on what he was com’d o’ he wad ne’er a offer’d benevolence to the like o’ her.
Mar. An’ ye had been as great an instrogater against his making her double ribbet, as ye’re now against doing her justice, for the filthy jimcrack he’s gien her, ye wadna need to ca’ her silly lown the day, an him an honest man; but the ne’er an honest man wad a hoddl’d sae lang on a ae poor hussie an’ then gane awa an a married anither for love of a pickle auld clouts, and twa three pock-fou’s o’ tow: an she is but a silly lown indeed that lute him or ony rattle-scul else, shake their tail so lang upon her, without his faith, an’ his troth, an’ his fist before the minister.
Moth. A cauld be your cast kimmer, do ye think it your dadeling daughter’s a match fit for my son John; I think less may sair, her father was but a poor cotter carle, an’ our John’s father was a farmer, an’ its but a trick o’ youth, an’ the course of youdeth maun be out; but she may thank good fortune an’ tell her friends ay, an’ count it a credit that ever she bore a bystart to the like o’ him; a good fu fat farmer’s son, but ae laigher nor a laird.
Mar. A wae be to sic a credit it’s no worth the cracking o’, an’ whar was a’ his noble equals whan he bute to lay a leg on a my poor lassie, poor clarty clukny it thou is? an’ if they warna baith ae man’s mak I wad think naething o’t; for they warna a needle o’ differ between their dadies an’ what war they baith but twa sticket taylors at the best? ye had as good a gane hame an’ a counted bow-kail stocks, as to come here to count kindred wi’ me.
Jock. Hout awa daft witless wives, I kenna what you’re flyting about, I wad rather see the wean gin it be ony thing wally and like the warld.
Mar. Indeed sall ye John, you’ll see your ain picture for little siller, a muckle mouth’t haverel it is just like yoursel.
The child is presented.
Jock. Mither, mither, it has a muckle mouth just like mine, an’ sees wi’ baith ot’s een, an bit five days auld yet.
Moth. Dear Johny thou’s no wise man, wad tu hae the wean to be blin, the poor thing saw whan it was new born.
Jock. A what ken I mither, am no sae weel skill’d as the howdies, an’ them that’s ay hobbling weans: but I thought they had a been like the wee bit’s a whalpies, nine nights auld before they had seen ony.