CATHLEEN. She'd sleep that trouble away—though it must be A heavy trouble to forget his name— If she had better sense.
OONA. Your own house, lady.
ALEEL. She sleeps high up on wintry Knock-na-rea In an old cairn of stones; while her poor women Must lie and jog in the wave if they would sleep Being water born—yet if she cry their names They run up on the land and dance in the moon Till they are giddy and would love as men do, And be as patient and as pitiful. But there is nothing that will stop in their heads, They've such poor memories, though they weep for it. Oh, yes, they weep; that's when the moon is full.
CATHLEEN. is it because they have short memories They live so long?
ALEEL. What's memory but the ash That chokes our fires that have begun to sink? And they've a dizzy, everlasting fire.
OONA. There is your own house, lady.
CATHLEEN. Why, that's true, And we'd have passed it without noticing.
ALEEL. A curse upon it for a meddlesome house! Had it but stayed away I would have known What Queen Maeve thinks on when the moon is pinched; And whether now—as in the old days—the dancers Set their brief love on men.
OONA. Rest on my arm. These are no thoughts for any Christian ear.
ALEEL. I am younger, she would be too heavy for you.