Shawn, this is half empty;
Go, bring up the best bottle that we have.
FATHER HART
I never saw her read a book before,
What can it be?
MAURTEEN (to SHAWN)
What are you waiting for?
You must not shake it when you draw the cork;
It's precious wine, so take your time about it.
(To Priest.) (SHAWN goes.)
There was a Spaniard wrecked at Ocris Head,
When I was young, and I have still some bottles.
He cannot bear to hear her blamed; the book
Has lain up in the thatch these fifty years;
My father told me my grandfather wrote it,
And killed a heifer for the binding of it—
But supper's spread, and we can talk and eat
It was little good he got out of the book,
Because it filled his house with rambling fiddlers,
And rambling ballad-makers and the like.
The griddle-bread is there in front of you.
Colleen, what is the wonder in that book,
That you must leave the bread to cool? Had I
Or had my father read or written books
There were no stocking stuffed with yellow guineas
To come when I am dead to Shawn and you.
FATHER HART
You should not fill your head with foolish dreams.
What are you reading?
MARY