that name? Why should my tongue be now constrained to speak the language of my heart? O father! father!

O'Carrol. Och—ho!

Julia. Why dost thou sigh, O'Carrol?

O'Carrol. Truly, madam, I was thinking of a piece of a rich old uncle I had in Ireland; who sent me to the French wars, to tear me away from a dear little creature I loved better than my eyes.

Julia. And wast thou ever in love, O'Carrol?

O'Carrol. That I was, faith, up to my chin. I never think upon it but it remembers me of the song that was wont to be played by honest Clamoran, poor fellow, our minstrel, in the north.