BELL: Then, what would you have? You’ve had her to yourself, without the worrit Of a man to wear your soul out, all these years. If I’d been married, before a week was through, I’d have picked my husband’s pocket, to buy rats’ bane: Envying the spiders who can gobble up Husbands they’ve no more use for between meals. But I wasn’t born to kick my heels in air For a plaguey husband: and if I’m to dangle, ’Twon’t be for that, but something worth putting myself Out of the way for. You say I’ll scorn you, woman. Who ’m I, to scorn? You’re not my sort: but I ken Too much of life for easy scorn: I’ve learnt The lessons of the road. JUDITH: I’ve known the road, too; And learned its bitter ... BELL: You didn’t relish it? It’s meat to me; but then, I like mixed pickles-- Life, with an edge, and a free hand with the pepper. You can’t make a good hotchpotch with only ’taties: And a good hotchpotch I’m fairly famished for: I’ve starved on the lean fare of Krindlesyke: My mouth is watering for the old savoury mess-- Life, piping hot: for I’m no man-in-the-moon, To sup off cold peaseporridge: and it’s the wash Of bitters over the tongue gives bite to the pepper: But you’ve no taste for bitters, or devilled collops-- Roast scrag on Sunday: cold mutton and boiled ’taties The rest of the week, is the most you’d ask of life-- Nay, a cup of milky tea by a white hearth-- And you’re in heaven! JUDITH: You’re not far out. BELL: I take Mine, laced with rum, by a camp-fire under the stars; And not too dainty to mind the smatch of smoke. JUDITH: Tastes differ. BELL: Yet, for all my appetite, At Krindlesyke, I’m a ewe overhead in a drift That’s cropped the grass round its feet, and mumbles its wool For nourishment: and that’s what you call life! You’re you: I’m I. It takes all turns for a circus: And it’s just the change and chances of the ring Make the old game worth the candle: variety At all costs: hurly-burly, razzle-dazzle-- Life, cowping creels through endless flaming hoops, A breakneck business, ending with a crash, If only in the big drum. The devil’s to pay For what we have, or haven’t; and I believe In value for my money. JUDITH: Peace and quiet And a good home are worth ... BELL: But, you’ve no turn For circuses: your heart’s a pipeclayed hearthstone-- No ring for hoofs to trample to the clang Of cymbals, blare of trumpets, rattle of drums: No dash of brandy in your stirabout: Porridge in peace, with a door ’twixt you and the weather; A sanded floor; and the glow and smother of peat: But I’d rather be a lean pig, running free, Than the fattest flitch of bacon on the rafters. JUDITH: And yet, you’ve kept ...