ELIZA: My faith, you’ve got a memory like a milk-sile! You’ve not forgotten Jim’s away to wed? You’re not that dull. EZRA: We cannot all be needles: And some folk’s tongues are sharper than their wits. Yet, till thon spirt of hot tar blinded me, No chap was cuter in all the countryside, Or better at a bargain; and it took A nimble tongue to bandy words with mine. You’d got to be up betimes to get round Ezra: And none was a shrewder judge of ewes, or women. My wits just failed me once, the day I married: But, you’re an early riser, and your tongue Is always up before you, and with an edge, Unblunted by the dewfall, and as busy As a scythe in the grass at Lammas. So Jim’s away To wed, is he, the limb? I thought he’d gone For swedes; though now, I mind some babblement About a wedding: but, nowadays, words tumble Through my old head like turnips through a slicer; And naught I ken who the bowdykite’s to wed-- Some bletherskite he’s picked up in a ditch, Some fond fligary flirtigig, clarty-fine, Who’ll turn a slattern-shrew and a cap-river Within a week, if I ken aught of Jim. Unless ... Nay, sure, ’twas Judith Ellershaw. ELIZA: No, no; you’re dull, indeed. It’s Phœbe Martin. EZRA: Who’s Phœbe Martin? I ken naught of her. ELIZA: And I, but little. EZRA: Some trapsing tatterwallops, I’ll warrant. Well, these days, the lads are like The young cockgrouse, who doesn’t consult his dad Before he mates. In my--yet, come to think, I didn’t say overmuch. My dad and mammy Scarce kenned her name when I sprung my bride on them; Just loosed on them a gisseypig out of a poke They’d heard no squeak of. They’d to thole my choice, Lump it or like it. I’d the upper hand then: And well they kenned their master. No tawse to chide, Nor apron-strings to hold young Ezra then: His turn had come; and he was cock of the midden, And no braw cockerel’s hustled him from it yet, For all their crowing. The blind old bird’s still game. They’ve never had his spirit, the young cheepers, Not one; and Jim’s the lave of the clutch; and he Will never lord it at Krindlesyke till I’m straked. But this what’s-her-name the gaby’s bringing ... ELIZA: Phœbe. EZRA: A posical name; I never heard the like. She’ll be a flighty faggit, mark my words. ELIZA: She’s only been here once before; and now She’ll be here all the time. I’ll find it strange With another woman in the house. Needs must Get used to it. Your mother found it strange, Likely ... It’s my turn now, and long in coming. Perhaps, that makes it harder. I’ve got set Like a vane, when the wind’s blown east so long, it’s clogged With dust, and cannot whisk with the chopping breeze. ’Twill need a wrench to shift my bent; for change Comes sore and difficult at my time of life. EZRA: Ay, you may find your nose put out of joint, If she’s a spirited wench.