JUDITH: Ay: and still, You have been faithful, Bell. BELL: A faithful fool, Against the grain, this fifteen-year: my son And that dead woman were too strong for me: They turned me false to my nature; broke me in Like a flea in harness, that draws a nutshell-coach. Till then I’d jumped, and bit, at my own sweet will. Oh! amn’t I the wiseacre, the downy owl, Fancying myself as knowing as a signpost? And yet, there’s always some new twist to learn. Life’s an old thimblerigger; and, it seems, Can still get on the silly side of me, Can still bamboozle me with his hanky-panky: He always kens a trick worth two of mine; Though he lets me spot the pea beneath the thimble Just often enough to keep me in good conceit. And he’s kept you going, too, with Ruth to live for. JUDITH: If it hadn’t been for Ruth ... BELL: He kens, he kens: As canny as he’s cute, for his own ends, He’s a wise showman; and doesn’t overfeed The living skeleton or let the fat lady starve: And so, we’re each kept going, in our own kind, Till we’ve served our turn. Mine’s talking, you’ll have gathered! JUDITH: Ay, you’ve a tongue. BELL: It rattles in my head Like crocks in a mugger’s cart: but I’ve had few To talk with here; and too much time for brooding, Turning things over and over in my own mind, These fifteen years. JUDITH: True: neighbours, hereabouts, Are few, and far to seek. BELL: The devil a chance I’ve ever had of a gossip: and, as for news, I’ve had to fall back on the wormy Bible That props the broken looking-glass: so, now I’ve got the chance of a crack, my tongue goes randy; And patters like a cheapjack’s, or a bookie’s Offering you odds against the favourite, life: Or, wasn’t life the dark horse? I have talked My wits out, till I’m like a drunken tipster, Too milled to ken the dark horse from the favourite. My sharp tongue’s minced my very wits to words. JUDITH: Ay, it’s been rattling round. BELL: A slick tongue spares The owner the fag of thinking: it’s the listeners Who get the headache. And yet, I could talk At one time to some purpose--didn’t dribble Like a tap that needs a washer: and, by carties, It’s talking I’ve missed most: I’ve always been Like an urchin with a withy--must be slashing-- Thistles for choice: and not once, since I came, Have I had a real good shindy to warm my blood. JUDITH: I’d have thought Ezra ... BELL: Ay: we fratched, at first; For he’d a tongue of his own; and could use it, too, Better than most menfolk--a bonnie sparrer, I warrant, in his time; but past his best Before I kenned him; little fight left in him: And when his wits went cranky, he just havered-- Ground out his two tunes like a hurdygurdy, With most notes missing and a creaky handle. JUDITH: And Michael?