There are worse things for a woman than a home
And husband and a lawful family.
You shall not go. You say I ken my mind ...

BELL:
Ay: but not mine. What should a tinker’s trollop
Do in the house of Michael Barrasford,
But bring a blush to his children’s cheeks? God help them,
If they take after me, if they’ve a dash
Of Haggard blood--for ewe’s milk laced with brandy
Is like to curdle: or, happen, I should say,
God help their father!

MICHAEL:
Mother, why should you go?
Why should you want to travel the ditch-bottom,
When you’ve a hearth to sit by, snug and clean?

BELL:
The fatted calf’s to be killed for the prodigal mother?
You’ve not the hard heart of the young cockrobin
That’s got no use for parents, once he’s mated:
But I’m, somehow, out of place within four walls,
Tied to one spot--that never wander the world.
I long for the rumble of wheels beneath me; to hear
The clatter and creak of the lurching caravan;
And the daylong patter of raindrops on the roof:
Ay, and the gossip of nights about the campfire--
The give-and-take of tongues: mine’s getting stiff
For want of use, and spoiling for a fight.