Tastes differ.
Bell:
Yet, for all my appetite,
At Krindlesyke, I’m a ewe overhead in a drift
That’s cropped the grass round its feet, and mumbles its wool
For nourishment: and that’s what you call life!
You’re you: I’m I. It takes all turns for a circus:
And it’s just the change and chances of the ring
Make the old game worth the candle: variety
At all costs: hurly-burly, razzle-dazzle—
Life, cowping creels through endless flaming hoops,
A breakneck business, ending with a crash,
If only in the big drum. The devil’s to pay
For what we have, or haven’t; and I believe
In value for my money.
Judith:
Peace and quiet
And a good home are worth ...
Bell:
But, you’ve no turn
For circuses: your heart’s a pipeclayed hearthstone—
No ring for hoofs to trample to the clang
Of cymbals, blare of trumpets, rattle of drums:
No dash of brandy in your stirabout:
Porridge in peace, with a door ’twixt you and the weather;
A sanded floor; and the glow and smother of peat:
But I’d rather be a lean pig, running free,
Than the fattest flitch of bacon on the rafters.
Judith:
And yet, you’ve kept ...
Bell: