Pel. What! What, boy?
Bia. I say when she's his daughter. Let that in
At your good ear, and in the t'other one
I'll call you father.
Pel. Ruin! It's come!
Bia. Who thinks
I'd make that Spartan grunt my father, knows
Not me! What? Set that boding beard at head
Of my Athenian house? Or go to Sparta
To hut me where I would not ask a stall
For a borrowed horse?
Pel. But——
Bia. Scratch my helpless throat
With bread a pig would stick at? Swallow brew
Of salt and soot? And chafe my pumiced skin
With itching linsey?—or an untanned hide,
As man were still the beast that wore it?
Pel. Peace,
My son——
Bia. Say grace for leeks and goose-foot?
Pel. But——
Bia. Though Eros pinned me head and foot with shafts,
I've saved my eyes, bless my united wits,
And know the high-road! I'll not lose me on
A pig-trail to a sty.