O’Bla. Forgit!—Do I forgit my own name, do you think? Sooner forgit that then my promises.
Pat. Oh! I beg your honour’s pardon—I would not doubt your word; and to make matters sure, and to make Catty cockahoop, I tould her, and swore to her, there was not a McBride in the town but two, and there’s twinty, more or less.
O’Bla. And when she sees them twinty, more or less, what will she think?—Why would you say that?—she might find you out in a lie next minute, Mr. Overdo. ‘Tis dangerous for a young man to be telling more lies than is absolutely requisite. The lie superfluous brings many an honest man, and, what’s more, many a cliver fellow, into a scrape—and that’s your great fau’t, Pat.
Pat. Which, sir?
O’Bla. That, sir. I don’t see you often now take a glass too much. But, Pat, I hear you often still are too apt to indulge in a lie too much.
Pat. Lie! Is it I?—Whin upon my conscience, I niver to my knowledge tould a lie in my life, since I was born, excipt it would be just to skreen a man, which is charity, sure,—or to skreen myself, which is self-defence, sure—and that’s lawful; or to oblige your honour, by particular desire, and that can’t be helped, I suppose.
O’Bla. I am not saying again all that—only (laying his hand on PAT’S shoulder as he is going out) against another time, all I’m warning you, young man, is, you’re too apt to think there never can be lying enough. Now too much of a good thing is good for nothing. {Exit O’BLANEY.
PAT, alone.
Pat. There’s what you may call the divil rebuking sin—and now we talk of the like, as I’ve heard my mudther say, that he had need of a long spoon that ates wid the divil—so I’ll look to that in time. But whose voice is that I hear coming up stairs? I don’t believe but it’s Mr. Carver—only what should bring him back agin, I wonder now? Here he is, all out of breath, coming.
Enter Mr. CARVER.