Ober. Why, stoical Scot, do what thou darest to me: here is my breast, strike.
Boh. Thou wilt not threap[245] me, this whinyard[246] has gard many better men to lope then thou! [Tries to draw his sword.] But how now! Gos sayds, what, will't not out? Whay, thou witch, thou de'il! Gad's fute, may whinyard!
Ober. Why, pull, man: but what an 'twere out, how then?
Boh. This, then,—thou weart best be gone first; for ay'l so lop thy limbs that thou's go with half a knave's carcass to the de'il.
Ober. Draw it out: now strike, fool, canst thou not?
Boh. Bread ay gad, what de'il is in me? Whay, tell me, thou skipjack, what art thou?
Ober. Nay, first tell me what thou wast from thy birth, what thou hast passed hitherto, why thou dwellest in a tomb and leavest the world; and then I will release thee of these bonds; before, not.
Boh. And not before! then needs must, needs sall. I was born a gentleman of the best blood in all Scotland, except the king. When time brought me to age, and death took my parents, I became a courtier; where, though ay list not praise myself, ay engraved the memory of Bohan on the skin-coat of some of them, and revelled with the proudest.
Ober. But why, living in such reputation, didst thou leave to be a courtier?
Boh. Because my pride was vanity, my expense loss, my reward fair words and large promises, and my hopes spilt; for that after many years' service one outran me; and what the de'il should I then do there? No, no; flattering knaves, that can cog and prate fastest, speed best in the court.