Ay, the green bracken-shoots,
Soon push through the black litter of charred heath:
And you have Ruth.
Judith:
Or, had her, till last night:
I’ve lost her, now, it seems.
Bell:
You let life hurt you:
You shy at shadows; and shrink from the crack of the whip,
Before the lash stings: and life loves no sport
Like yarking a shivering hide: you ask for it.
Judith:
I’ve been through much.
Bell:
And so, you should ken better
Than to hang yourself, before the judge gives sentence:
His honour can put the black cap on for himself,
Without your aid. You’ll die a thousand deaths,
Before your end comes, peacefully in bed.
Why should you go half-way to meet your funeral?
Judith: