Foig. Upon my shoul, noble friend, dis is strange news you tell me, Fader Foigard a subject of England—de son of a Burgomaster of Brussels a subject of England, Ubooboo—
Aim. The son of a bog trotter in Ireland: sir, your tongue will condemn you before any bench in the kingdom.
Foig. And is my tongue all your evidensh, joy?
Aim. That's enough.
Foig. No, no, joy, for I will never spaake de English no more.
Aim. Sir, I have other evidence.—Here, Martin, you know this fellow.
Enter Archer.
Aim. [In a Brogue.] Shave you, my dear cussen, how does your health?
Foig. Ah! upon my shoul dere is my countryman and his brogue will hang mine. [Aside.] Mynhere, ick wet neat wat hey zacht, ick univirston ewe, neat, sacrament.
Aim. Altering your language won't do, sir, this fellow knows your person, and will swear to your face.