Now don't you try Being funny at my expense; or you'll soon find I'm not quite done for yet--not quite snuffed out. There's still a spark of life. You may have words: But I've a fist will be a match for them. Words slaver feebly from a broken jaw. I've always lived straight, as a man must do In my profession, if he'ld keep in fettle: But I'm no gentleman, for I fail to see There's any sport in baiting a poor man Because he's losing grip at forty-two, And sees his livelihood slipping from his grasp-- Ay, and his children's bread. Gentleman John: Why, man alive, Who's baiting you? This winded, broken cur, That limps through life, to bait a bull like you! You don't want pity, man! The beaten bull, Even when the dogs are tearing at his gullet, Turns no eye up for pity. I myself, Crippled and hunched and twisted as I am, Would make a brave fend to stand up to you Until you swallowed your words, if you should slobber Your pity over me. A bull! Nay, man, You're nothing but a bear with a sore head. A bee has stung you--you who've lived on honey. Sawdust, forsooth! You've had the sweet of life: You've munched the honeycomb till-- Merry Andrew: Ay! talk's cheap. But you've no children. You don't understand. Gentleman John: I have no children: I don't understand! Merry Andrew: It's children make the difference. Gentleman John: Man alive-- Alive and kicking, though you're shamming dead-- You've hit the truth at last. It's that, just that, Makes all the difference. If you hadn't children, I'ld find it in my heart to pity you, Granted you'ld let me. I don't understand! I've seen you stripped. I've seen your children stripped. You've never seen me naked; but you can guess The misstitched, gnarled, and crooked thing I am. Now, do you understand? I may have words. But you, man, do you never burn with pride That you've begotten those six limber bodies, Firm flesh, and supple sinew, and lithe limb-- Six nimble lads, each like young Absalom, With red blood running lively in his veins, Bone of your bone, your very flesh and blood? It's you don't understand. God, what I'ld give This moment to be you, just as you are, Preposterous pantaloons, and purple cats, And painted leer, and crimson curls, and all-- To be you now, with only one missed hoop, If I'd six clean-limbed children of my loins, Born of the ecstasy of life within me, To keep it quick and valiant in the ring When I ... but I ... Man, man, you've missed a hoop; But they'll take every hoop like blooded colts: And 'twill be you in them that leaps through life, And in their children, and their children's children. God! doesn't it make you hold your breath to think There'll always be an Andrew in the ring, The very spit and image of you stripped, While life's old circus lasts? And I ... at least