A man. The beans are cold.
Another. Soured too!
Gray Moses, here's a life!
Mas. Do you complain,
O, comrades? Now your hour is come? The pearl
O' the long ungarnished day? The holy hour
Of—beans? Why, think! What do we live for, men?
For sweaty moments battling 'gainst the sun
To strip the thorny hennequin? For nights
Of bitten sleep in unwashed pens? Not so.
Lift up your cups! Here is the crown of toil!
Each day we reach our life's supremest dome,
And know we're there! Can man ask more? Even kings,
Though the gold frontal of munificence
Is bowed before them, yet must fretting guess
The morrow's store. But we, my friends, we know!
Then let each separate and distinct legume,
Dear as the Egyptian treasure lost in wine,
Delay as preciously——
Coq. [Cutting him across shoulders]
Come down from that!
There's more for you, my friend, i' the lower yard.
I'll tie you up.
Fam. O, Coquriez, let him go.
You should not care. His tongue was born with him,
And God may mend it. Let the fool alone.
Coq. Hmm, if you ask me——
Fam. Thank you, Coquriez.
I'll stand for him he'll not offend again.
Mas. My tongue is glue. 'Twill stick to its place.
A man. Fish! fish!
Another. He's had his share.