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 ab