Bade you stop painting, would you not have said—
‘To win your wish, first you must strike me dead!’
Olang.
You chattering little devil, you drivelling brat!
How dare you mock at me with your mouth like that!
Swear by your father’s dust, never to lay
Finger on paint again! Swear it, I say!
Tiki.
Oh, if I did, that dust out of the grave
Would rise and choke me! No! were I your slave,