Fankit in sluthery strothers, belly-deep,
With the tune of the horn tally-hoing through her blood,
As the field sweeps out of sight.

MICHAEL:
Wildcats and hunters--
A mongrel breed, eh, Ruth?

BELL:
But, now it seems,
I can draw my hocks out of the clungy sump
I’ve floundered in so long; and, snuffing the wind,
Shew a clean pair of heels to Krindlesyke.
A mongrel breed, say you? And who but a man
Could have a wildcat-hunter making his bed
For him for fifteen-year, and never know it?
But, the old wife’s satisfied, at last: she should be:
She’s had my best years: I’ve grown old and grizzled,
And full of useless wisdom, in her service.
She’s taught me much: for I’ve had time and to spare,
Brooding among these God-forsaken fells,
To turn life inside-out in my own mind;
And study every thread of it, warp and weft.
I’m far from the same woman who came here:
And I’ll take up my old life with a difference,
Now she and you’ve got no more use for me:
You’ve squeezed me dry betwixt you.

MICHAEL:
Dry, do you say?