This must be death: the crows are gathering in.
I don’t feel like cold carrion, but corbies will gather,
And flesh their bloody beaks on an old ram’s carcase,
Before the life’s quite out.
Peter (to Bell):
I feared ’twas mother.
Lucky, she’s out; it’s easier to do—
Well, you ken what, when she’s ... But didn’t I bid
You keep well out of sight, you and the lad?
Bell:
You did. What then?
Peter:
I thought ’twas better the bairn ...
Bell:
You think too much for a man with a small head:
You’ll split the scalp, some day. I’ve not been used
To doing any man’s bidding, as you should ken:
And I’d a mind to see the marble halls
You dreamt you dwelt in.
Peter: