MOLLY BYRNE. _clapping her hands._ — That’s right, Mary. That’s the way to treat the like of him is after standing there at my feet and asking me to go off with him, till I’d grow an old wretched road-woman the like of yourself. MARY DOUL. _defiantly._ — When the skin shrinks on your chin, Molly Byrne, there won’t be the like of you for a shrunk hag in the four quarters of Ireland.... It’s a fine pair you’d be, surely! [_Martin Doul is standing at back right centre, with his back to the audience._] TIMMY. _coming over to Mary Doul._ — Is it no shame you have to let on she’d ever be the like of you? MARY DOUL. It’s them that’s fat and flabby do be wrinkled young, and that whitish yellowy hair she has does be soon turning the like of a handful of thin grass you’d see rotting, where the wet lies, at the north of a sty. (_Turning to go out on right._) Ah, it’s a better thing to have a simple, seemly face, the like of my face, for two-score years, or fifty itself, than to be setting fools mad a short while, and then to be turning a thing would drive off the little children from your feet. [_She goes out; Martin Doul has come forward again, mastering himself, but uncertain._] TIMMY. Oh, God protect us, Molly, from the words of the blind. (_He throws down Martin Doul’s coat and stick._) There’s your old rubbish now, Martin Doul, and let you take it up, for it’s all you have, and walk off through the world, for if ever I meet you coming again, if it’s seeing or blind you are itself, I’ll bring out the big hammer and hit you a welt with it will leave you easy till the judgment day. MARTIN DOUL. _rousing himself with an effort._ — What call have you to talk the like of that with myself? TIMMY. _pointing to Molly Byrne._ — It’s well you know what call I have. It’s well you know a decent girl, I’m thinking to wed, has no right to have her heart scalded with hearing talk — and queer, bad talk, I’m thinking — from a raggy-looking fool the like of you. MARTIN DOUL. _raising his voice._ — It’s making game of you she is, for what seeing girl would marry with yourself? Look on him, Molly, look on him, I’m saying, for I’m seeing him still, and let you raise your voice, for the time is come, and bid him go up into his forge, and be sitting there by himself, sneezing and sweating, and he beating pot-hooks till the judgment day. [_He seizes her arm again._] MOLLY BYRNE. Keep him off from me, Timmy! TIMMY. _pushing Martin Doul aside._ — Would you have me strike you, Martin Doul? Go along now after your wife, who’s a fit match for you, and leave Molly with myself. MARTIN DOUL. _despairingly._ — Won’t you raise your voice, Molly, and lay hell’s long curse on his tongue?