Myr. Well, Master, when you and I go abroad, I'll shew you prettier sights than these——there's a masquerade to-morrow.
Squ. Rich. O laud! ay! they say that's a pure thing for Merry Andrews, and those sort of comical mummers——and the Count tells me, that there lads and lasses may jig their tails, and eat, and drink, without grudging, all night-lung.
Myr. What would you say now, if I should get you a ticket and go along with you?
Squ. Rich. Ah dear!
Myr. But have a care, Squire, the fine ladies there are terribly tempting; look well to your heart, or ads me! they'll whip it up in the trip of a minute.
Squ. Rich. Ay, but they can't thoa——soa let 'um look to themselves, an' ony of 'um falls in love with me—mayhap they had as good be quiet.
Myr. Why sure you would not refuse a fine lady, would you?
Squ. Rich. Ay, but I would tho' unless it were—one at I know of.
Myr. Oh! oh! then you have left your heart in the country, I find?
Squ. Rich. Noa, noa, my heart——eh——my heart e'nt awt o' this room.