Ruth:
Mother? Nay, she’s too old: you said you knew her.
Bell:
Ay, well enough to reckon I’m her elder:
And who’s to tell me I’m too old to marry?
A woman is never too old for anything:
It’s only men grow sober and faint-hearted:
And Judith’s just the sort whose soul is set
On a husband and a hearthstone: I ken that.
Ruth:
Nay: mother’ll never marry.
Bell:
You can speak
With all the cock-a-whoop of ignorance:
For you’re too young to dare to doubt your wisdom.
It’s a wise man, or a fool, can speak for himself,
Let alone for others, in this haphazard life.
But give me a young fool, rather than an old—
A plucky plunger, than a canny crone
Who’s old enough to ken she doesn’t ken.
You’re right: for doubting is a kind of dotage:
Experience ages and decays; while folk
Who never doubt themselves die young—at ninety.
Age never yet brought gumption to a ninny:
And you cannot reckon up a stranger’s wits
By counting his bare patches and grey hairs:
It’s seldom sense that makes a bald head shine:
And I’m not partial to Methuselahs.
Keep your cocksureness, while you can: too soon,
Time plucks the feathers off you; and you lie,
Naked and skewered, with not a cock-a-doodle,
Or flap of the wings to warm your heart again.
And so, you quitted your mammy, without a word,
When the jockey whistled?
Ruth:
Nay: I left a letter:
’Twas all I could do.