Tim. While simply moving I seem to have disjointed my whole vertebral column. The devil, the devil!
Nem. (drinking calmly). Something or other will have got dislocated.
Juan. Let us undeceive ourselves: we are nearing the City of Old Age. By the life of life, how short is life! (Strikes the chair with his fist.) Ah!
Tim. What ails you?
Juan. A pain in the elbow—and in this shoulder.
Nem. The weather; it’s damp. (Drinks.)
Tim. Juanito, you have never been very strong.
Juan. I have not been? I have not been? I have been stronger than you all. For twenty-four hours running I have played cards: for three days running I have been shut up with Pacorro and Luis emptying bottles: and my patron Saint Juan Tenorio, from the heaven where he dwells in company with Doña Inez, will have seen how I have borne myself in amorous enterprises. You, on the other hand, have been nothing more than the braggadocios of vice. Away with such lay-figures.
Tim. We don’t deny that you have been a greater madcap than anybody else; but strong—what’s called a strong man—that you have not been.
Nem. You have not been that—confess.