And you cannot reckon up a stranger’s wits
By counting his bare patches and grey hairs:
It’s seldom sense that makes a bald head shine:
And I’m not partial to Methuselahs.
Keep your cocksureness, while you can: too soon,
Time plucks the feathers off you; and you lie,
Naked and skewered, with not a cock-a-doodle,
Or flap of the wings to warm your heart again.
And so, you quitted your mammy, without a word,
When the jockey whistled?

RUTH:
Nay: I left a letter:
’Twas all I could do.

BELL:
She’s lost a daughter; and got
A bit of paper, instead: and what have I,
For my lost son?

MICHAEL:
You’ve lost no son; but gained
A daughter. You’ll always live with us.

BELL:
Just so.
I’ve waited for you to say that: and it comes pat.
You’ll think his thoughts; and mutter them in your mind,
Before he can give them tongue, Ruth. He’s not said
An unexpected thing since he grew out