"You lie, you scoundrel."
"There's something in the trumpet, sir."
"Yes, there's music in it; and if you don't blow it out of it——"
"I can't blow it out of it, sir."
"Hold your prate, you ruffian; blow this minute."
"Arrah, thry it yourself, sir," said the frightened man, handing the instrument to the Squire.
"D——n your impudence, you rascal; do you think I'd blow anything that was in your dirty mouth? Blow, I tell you, or it will be worse for you."
"By the vartue o' my oath, your honour——"
"Blow, I tell you!"
"By the seven blessed candles——"