Jar. Hark in your ear: she will have her nest feathered with no British breed.
Ran. Sounds, was not British so good as English?
Jar. Yes, where there's wisdom, wit, and valour; but, as amongst our English, we may have one fool, a knave, a coxcomb, and a coward, she bid me tell you, she has seen such wonders come out of Wales. In one word,[68] you're an ass, and she'll have none of you.
Ran. Augh, Saint Tavie, Owen, Morgan, and all hur cousins! was widow herself say so?
Wid. Good sir, let every circumstance make up one answer, take it with you.
Jar. And the Roman answer is, the English goose, sir.[69]
Ran. Sounds! hur was kill now! Gog and Gogmagog! a whole dozen of shiants. Make fool of Randalls! Randalls was wisht to as prave match as widows; was know one Mary Bloodhound, was ha' all, when her father kick up heels; and, by cat, though hur never saw hur, hur will send hur love-letters presently, get hur good-wills, and go to shurch and marry, and hur were eight-and-thirty, two hundred and nine and fifty widows. Mark hur now. [Exit Randall.
Jar. He pelts as he goes pitifully.
Wid. Where's Mary?
John. Mary!