Ton. A rich father, who does not encourage your attentions!
Mike. Sorra a bit. “Mike,” sez he,—and it’s moighty winning he is in his way,—“the front uv my door is illigantly painted on the outside,—much finer than the inside; and you’d do well to examine it whin you’re passing by,—whin you’re passing by, mind.”
Ton. Meaning, “I won’t turn you out, but you can’t stay here.”
Mike. That’s jest what he meant. Faith, it’s well posted yez are in the trials and tribulations uv the tinder passion.
Ton. Yes, Mike; I can sympathize with you. I’m desperately in love myself.
Mike. You?
Ton. Yes, and with the daughter of a rich man, and my love is returned. Ah, Mike! she is the paragon of loveliness!—the otto of roses!—the pink of purity.
Mike. The shaving-cream uv perfiction, and the hair-oil uv illigance! Oh, murther! they’re all alike till they find you’ve no money.
Ton. Ah! but she’s entirely different, Mike. She is willing—nay, anxious—to share my humble fortunes. ’Tis I who dread to take her from all the rich comforts she has enjoyed, and ask her to share—
Mike. Love in a cottage, wid bacon and greens! Faith, you’re right: it’s a mighty foine picter, but hard of digestion. What says the ould gintleman?