But I have heard that she was never married, And yet that's natural, for I have never known A fighting woman, but made her favours cheap, Or mocked at love till she grew sandy dry. CUCHULLAIN. What manner of woman do you like the best? A gentle or a fierce. FIRST YOUNG KING. A gentle surely. CUCHULLAIN. I think that a fierce woman's better, a woman That breaks away when you have thought her won, For I'd be fed and hungry at one time. I think that all deep passion is but a kiss In the mid battle, and a difficult peace 'Twixt oil and water, candles and dark night, Hill-side and hollow, the hot-footed sun, And the cold sliding slippery-footed moon, A brief forgiveness between opposites That have been hatreds for three times the age Of his long 'stablished ground. Here's Concobar; So I'll be done, but keep beside me still, For while he talks of hammered bronze and asks What wood is best for building, we can talk Of a fierce woman. (Concobar, a man much older than Cuchullain, has come in through the great door at the back. He has many Kings about him. One of these Kings, Daire, a stout old man, is somewhat drunk.) CONCOBAR. (To one of those about him.) Has the ship gone yet? We have need of more bronze workers and that ship I sent to Africa for gold is late. CUCHULLAIN. I knew their talk. CONCOBAR. (Seeing Cuchullain.) You are before us, King. CUCHULLAIN. So much the better, for I welcome you Into my Muirthemne. CONCOBAR. But who are these? The odour from their garments when they stir Is like a wind out of an apple garden. CUCHULLAIN. My swordsmen and harp players and fine dancers, My bosom friends. CONCOBAR. I should have thought, Cuchullain, My graver company would better match Your greatness and your years; but I waste breath In harping on that tale. CUCHULLAIN. You do, great King. Because their youth is the kind wandering wave That carries me about the world; and if it sank, My sword would lose its lightness. CONCOBAR. Yet, Cuchullain, Emain should be the foremost town of the world. CUCHULLAIN. It is the foremost town. CONCOBAR. No, no, it's not. Nothing but men can make towns great, and he, The one over-topping man that's in the world, Keeps far away. DAIRE. He will not hear you, King, And we old men had best keep company With one another. I'll fill the horn for you. CONCOBAR. I will not drink, old fool. You have drunk a horn At every door we came to. DAIRE. You'd better drink, For old men light upon their youth again In the brown ale. When I have drunk enough, I am like Cuchullain as one pea another, And live like a bird's flight from tree to tree. CONCOBAR.