Judith:
You’re going, Jim?
Jim:
I’ll not be taken here,
Like a brock in his earth: I’ll not be trapped and torn ...
Yet, I don’t know. Why should I go? No worse
To be taken here than elsewhere: and I’m dead beat:
I’m all to rovers, my wit’s all gone agate:
And how can I travel in these boots? A week since
The soles bid a fond farewell to the uppers: I’ve been
Hirpling it, barefoot—ay, kind lady, barefoot.
You’d hardly care to be in my shoes, Judith?
While you’ve been sitting doose ...
Judith:
I’ve known the road:
I’ve trudged it, too, lad: and your feet are bleeding.
I’ll bathe them for you, Jim, before you go:
And you shall have a pair of Michael’s boots.
Jim:
So, I may have young master’s cast-off boots,
Since he’s stepped into my shoes—a fair swap!
And tug my forelock, like a lousy tinker;
And whine God bless the master of this house,
Likewise the mistress, too ... By gox, I’ve come
To charity—Jim Barrasford’s come to mooch
For charity at Krindlesyke! Shanks’s mare’s
A sorry nag at best; and lets you down,
Sooner or later, for certain—the last straw,
When a man can’t trust his feet, and his own legs
Give under him, in his need, and bring him down
A devasher in the ditch as the dogs are on him!
You’re sorry? I don’t know. How can I tell?
You’re sly, you faggit; but don’t get over Jim
With jookery-pawkry, Judith: I may be maiselt,
But I’ve a little rummelgumption left:
I still ken a bran from a brimmer—bless your heart!
It suits you to get rid of me; and you judge
It’s cheaply done at the price of a pair of tackities.
Nay: I’ll be taken here.
Judith:
You cannot stay.