Arch. [In a brogue.] Saave you, my dear cussen, how does your health? [78]
Foi. [Aside.] Ah! upon my shoul dere is my countryman, and his brogue will hang mine.—[To Archer.] Mynheer, Ick wet neat watt hey xacht, Ick universton ewe neaty sacramant!
Aim. Altering your language won't do, sir; this fellow knows your person, and will swear to your face.
Foi. Faash! fey, is dere a brogue upon my faash too?
Arch. Upon my soulvation dere ish, joy!—But cussen Mackshane, vil you not put a remembrance upon me?
Foi. Mackshane! by St. Paatrick, dat ish my naam shure enough! [Aside.
Aim. I fancy, Archer, you have it. [Aside to Archer.
Foi. The devil hang you, joy! by fat acquaintance are you my cussen? [92]
Arch. Oh, de devil hang yourshelf, joy! you know we were little boys togeder upon de school, and your foster-moder's son was married upon my nurse's chister, joy, and so we are Irish cussens.
Foi. De devil taake de relation! vel, joy, and fat school was it?