iling for a fight.

MICHAEL:
Nay: still as nimble and nippy as a flea!

BELL:
But, I could talk, at one time! There are days
When the whole world's hoddendoon and draggletailed,
Drooked through and through; and blury, gurly days
When the wind blows snell: but it's something to be stirring,
And not shut up between four glowering walls,
Like blind white faces; and you never ken
What traveller your wayside fire will draw
Out of the night, to tell outlandish tales,
Or crack a jest, or start quarrel with you,
Till the words bite hot as ginger on the tongue.
Anger's the stuff to loose a tongue grown rusty:
And keep it in good fettle for all chances.
I'm sick of dozing by a dumb hearthstone--
And the peat, with never a click or crackle in it--
Famished for news.

MICHAEL:
For scandal.

BELL:
There's no scandal
For those who can't be scandalized--just news:
All's fish that comes to their net. I was made
For company.

MICHAEL:
And you'd go back again
To that tag-rag-and-bobtail? What's the use
Of a man's working to keep a decent home,
When his own mother tries to drag him down?

BELL:
Nay: my pernicketty, fine gentleman,
But I'll not drag you down: you're free of me:
I've slipt my apron off; and you're tied now
To your wife's apron-strings: for menfolk seem
Uneasy on the loose, and never happy
Unless they're clinging to some woman's skirt.
I'm out of place in any decent house,
As a kestrel in a hencoop. Ay, you're decent:
But, son, remember a man's decency
Depends on his braces; and it's I who've sewn
Your trouser-buttons on; so, when you fasten
Your galluses, give the tinker's baggage credit.
She's done her best for you; and scrubbed and scoured,
Against the grain, for all these years, to keep
Your home respectable; though, in her heart,
Thank God, she's never been respectable--
No dry-rot in her bones, while she's alive:
Time and to spare for decency in the grave.
So, you can do your duty by the sheep,
While I go hunting with the jinneyhoolets--
Birds of a feather--ay, and fleece with fleece:
And when I'm a toothless, mumbling crone, you'll be
So proper a gentleman, 'twill be hard to tell
The shepherd from the sheep. Someone must rear
The mutton and wool, to keep us warm and fed;
But that's not my line: please to step this way
For the fancy goods and fakish faldalals,
Trinkets and toys and fairings. Son, you say,
You're master here: well,