Lord J. If the allusion’s good, we shall probably find out your meaning.
Talb. On with you, Rory, and don’t read us notes on a song.
Lord J. Go on, and let us hear what you say of Bursal.
Rory sings.
“Then there’s he with the purse that’s as long as my arm;
His father’s a tanner,—but then where’s the harm?
Heir to houses, and hunters, and horseponds in fee,
Won’t his skins sure soon buy him a pedigree?”
Lord J. Encore! encore! Why, Rory, I did not think you could make so good a song.
Rory. Sure ’twas none of I made it—’twas Talbot here.
Talb. I!
Rory (aside). Not a word: I’ll make you a present of it: sure, then, it’s your own.
Talb. I never wrote a word of it.