You shall not go.
Bell:
Your naked hurdles cannot hold the wind.
Michael:
Wind? Ay, I’m fairly tewed and hattered with words:
And yet, for all your wind, you shall not go.
Bell:
While you’ve a roof to shelter me, eh, son?
You mean so well; and understand so little.
Yours is a good thick fleece—no skin that twitches
When a breath tickles it. Sheep will be sheep,
And horses, horses, till the day of judgment.
Michael:
Better a sound tup than a spavined nag.
Bell: