Boh. Ah say, what's thou?
Ober. Thy friend, Bohan.
Boh. What wot I or reck I that? whay, guid man, I reck no friend nor ay reck no foe; als ene to me. Git thee ganging, and trouble not may whayet,[241] or ays gar[242] thee recon me nene of thay friend, by the Mary mass, sall I!
Ober. Why, angry Scot, I visit thee for love; then what moves thee to wrath?
Boh. The de'il a whit reck I thy love; for I know too well that true love took her flight twenty winter sence to heaven, whither till ay can, weel I wot, ay sal ne'er find love: an thou lovest me, leave me to myself. But what were those puppets that hopped and skipped about me year whayle?[243]
Ober. My subjects.
Boh. Thay subjects! whay, art thou a king?
Ober. I am.
Boh. The de'il thou art! whay, thou lookest not so big as the King of Clubs, nor so sharp as the King of Spades, nor so fain as the King a Daymonds: be the mass, ay take thee to be the king of false hearts; therefore I rid[244] thee away, or ayse so curry your kingdom that you's be glad to run to save your life.