BELL: A family failing-- And, happen, on like errand to your own. RUTH: Mother? Nay, she’s too old: you said you knew her. BELL: Ay, well enough to reckon I’m her elder: And who’s to tell me I’m too old to marry? A woman is never too old for anything: It’s only men grow sober and faint-hearted: And Judith’s just the sort whose soul is set On a husband and a hearthstone: I ken that. RUTH: Nay: mother’ll never marry. BELL: You can speak With all the cock-a-whoop of ignorance: For you’re too young to dare to doubt your wisdom. It’s a wise man, or a fool, can speak for himself, Let alone for others, in this haphazard life. But give me a young fool, rather than an old-- A plucky plunger, than a canny crone Who’s old enough to ken she doesn’t ken. You’re right: for doubting is a kind of dotage: Experience ages and decays; while folk Who never doubt themselves die young--at ninety. Age never yet brought gumption to a ninny: And you cannot reckon up a stranger’s wits By counting his bare patches and grey hairs: It’s seldom sense that makes a bald head shine: And I’m not partial to Methuselahs. Keep your cocksureness, while you can: too soon, Time plucks the feathers off you; and you lie, Naked and skewered, with not a cock-a-doodle, Or flap of the wings to warm your heart again. And so, you quitted your mammy, without a word, When the jockey whistled? RUTH: Nay: I left a letter: ’Twas all I could do. BELL: She’s lost a daughter; and got A bit of paper, instead: and what have I, For my lost son? MICHAEL: You’ve lost no son; but gained A daughter. You’ll always live with us. BELL: Just so. I’ve waited for you to say that: and it comes pat. You’ll think his thoughts; and mutter them in your mind, Before he can give them tongue, Ruth. He’s not said An unexpected thing since he grew out Of his first breeches: and, like the most of men, He speaks so slowly, you can almost catch The creaking of his wits between the words. RUTH: Well: I’ve a tongue for two: and you, yourself, Don’t lack for ... BELL: So, all’s settled: you’ve arranged The world for your convenience; and have planned Your mothers’ lives between you? I’m to be The dear old grannie in the ingleneuk; And hide my grizzled wisps in a mutch with frills? Nay, God forbid! I’m no tame pussycat, To snuggle on the corner of a settle, With one eye open for the chance-thrown titbit, While the good housewife goes about her duties: Me! lapping with blinking eyes and possing paws, The saucer of skim-milk that young skinflint spares me, And purring, when her darlings pull my tail-- Great-grandchildren, too, to Ezra, on both sides. Ay: you may gape like a brace of guddled brandling: But that old bull-trout’s grandsire to you both; And a double dose of his blue blood will run In the veins of your small fry--if fish have veins.