JUDITH: Come, lass. You do not ken me for the thing I am: If you but guessed, you’d fling the door wide open, And draw your petticoats about you tight, Lest any draggletail of mine should smutch them. I never should have come ’mid decent folk: I never should have crawled out of the ditch. You little ken ... PHŒBE: I heard your name. I’ve heard That name before. JUDITH: You heard no good of it, Whoever spoke. PHŒBE: I heard it from the lips That uttered it just now. JUDITH: From Jim’s? Well, Jim Kens what I am. I wonder he lets you talk With me. Come ... PHŒBE: Not until I know the name Of your baby’s father. JUDITH: You’ve no right to ask. PHŒBE: Maybe: and yet, you shall not cross that doorsill, Until I know. JUDITH: Come, woman, don’t be foolish. PHŒBE: You say I’ve no right. Pray God, you speak the truth: But there may be no woman in the world Who has a better right. JUDITH: You’d never heed A doting dobby’s blethering, would you, lass-- An old, blind, crazy creature ... PHŒBE: If I’ve no right, You’ll surely never have the heart to keep The name from me? You’ll set my mind at ease? JUDITH: The heart! If it will set your mind at ease, I’ll speak my shame ... I’ll speak my shame right out ... I’ll speak my shame right out, before you all. JIM: But, lass! ELIZA (_to PHŒBE_): Nay: let her go. You’re young and hard: And I was hard, though far from young: I’ve long Been growing old; though little I realized How old. And when you’re old, you don’t judge hardly: You ken things happen, in spite of us, willy-nilly. We think we’re safe, holding the reins; and then In a flash the mare bolts; and the wheels fly off; And we’re lying, stunned, beneath the broken cart. So, let the lass go quietly; and keep Your happiness. When you’re old, you’ll not let slip A chance of happiness so easily: There’s not so much of it going, to pick and choose: The apple’s speckled; but it’s best to munch it, And get what relish out of it you can; And, one day, you’ll be glad to chew the core: For all its bitterness, few chuck it from them, While they’ve a sense left that can savour aught. So, let the lass go. You may have the right To question her: but folk who stand on their rights Get little rest: they’re on a quaking moss Without a foothold; and find themselves to the neck In Deadman’s Flow, before they’ve floundered far. Rights go for little, in this life: few are worth The risk of losing peace and quiet. You’ll have Plenty to worrit, and keep you wakeful, without A pillow stuffed with burrs and briars: so, take An old wife’s counsel, daughter: let well alone; And don’t go gathering grievances. The lass ... JIM: Ay, don’t be hard on her. Though mother’s old, She talks sense, whiles. So let the poor lass go.