Had pulled you from it, swear obedience

As if I were some cattle-raising king?

Are my shins speckled with the heat of the fire,

Or have my hands no skill but to make figures

Upon the ashes with a stick? Am I

So slack and idle that I need a whip

Before I serve you?

CONCHUBAR.

No, no whip, Cuchulain,

But every day my children come and say: