Lord J. (aside). He’ll not be quiet, till he makes me knock him down.
Rory. Agh! agh! agh!—I begin to guess whereabouts I am at last. Mad, in your country, I take it, means fit for Bedlam; but with us in Ireland, now, ’tis no such thing; it mean’s nothing in life but the being in a passion. Well, one comfort is, my lord, as you’re a bit of a scholar, we have the Latin proverb in our favour—“Ira furor brevis est” (Anger is short madness). The shorter the better, I think. So, my lord, to put an end to whatever of the kind you may have felt against poor Talbot, I’ll assure you he’s as innocent o’ that unfortunate song as the babe unborn.
Lord J. It is rather late for Mr. Talbot to make apologies to me.
Rory. He make apologies! Not he, ’faith; he’d send me to Coventry, or, maybe, to a worse place, did he but know I was condescending to make this bit of explanation, unknown to him. But, upon my conscience, I’ve a regard for you both, and don’t like to see you go together by the ears. Now, look you, my lord. By this book, and all the books that were ever shut and opened, he never saw or heard of that unlucky song of mine till I came out with it this morning.
Lord J. But you told me this morning that it was he who wrote it.
Rory. For that I take shame to myself, as it turned out; but it was only a white lie to sarve a friend, and make him cut a dash with a new song at election time. But I’ve done for ever with white lies.
Lord J. (walking about as if agitated). I wish you had never begun with them, Mr. O’Ryan. This may be a good joke to you; but it is none to me or Talbot. So Talbot never wrote a word of the song?
Rory. Not a word or syllable, good or bad.
Lord J. And I have given my promise to vote against him. He’ll lose his election.
Rory. Not if you’ll give me leave to speak to your friends in your name.