I’d as lief ask leave of the tricky wind as you:
And, leave or not, I’d see you damned, if you tried
To part us. None of your games! I’m no young wether,
To be let keep his old dam company;
Trotting beside her ...

BELL:
Cock-a-whoop, my lad!
Well done, for you, Ruth, lass; you’ve kindled him,
As I could never do, for all my chaff.
I little dreamt he’d ever turn lobstroplous:
I hardly ken him, with his dander up,
Swelling and bridling like a bubblyjock.
If I pricked him now, he’d bleed red blood--not ewe’s milk:
The flick of my tongue can nettle him at last:
His haunches quiver, for all his woolly coat;
He’ll prove a Haggard, yet. Nay--he said “husband”:
No Haggard I’ve heard tell on’s been a husband:
But, if your taste’s for husbands, lass, you’re suited,
Till doomsday, as he says. He kens his mind:
When barely breeched, he chose to bide with sheep;
Though he might have travelled with horses: and it’s sheep
His heart is set on still. But, I’ve no turn
For certainties myself: no sheep for me:
Life, with a tossing mane, and clattering hoofs,
The chancy life for me--not certain death,
With the stink of tar and sheepdip in my nostrils.

MICHAEL:
Life, with a clattering tongue, you mean to say.