Confound you, my boy! I am sticking to my character, and my character sticks to me. I feel like a rooster in an iron nightgown.
Bluegrass.
Solid in solid.
Whetstone.
I’m the only one here who seems to have his clothes riveted and anchored to him.
Bluegrass.
Hold! you must talk in the language of knight-errantry: My sweet, fair, or beauteous lady, wilt tread a measure in the dance? I am listed in the tournament of love.—Something in that strain.
Whetstone.
Will my clothes bear the strain?
Bluegrass.