Yet, I don’t know. Why should I go? No worse
To be taken here than elsewhere: and I’m dead beat:
I’m all to rovers, my wit’s all gone agate:
And how can I travel in these boots? A week since
The soles bid a fond farewell to the uppers: I’ve been
Hirpling it, barefoot--ay, kind lady, barefoot.
You’d hardly care to be in my shoes, Judith?
While you’ve been sitting doose ...

JUDITH:
I’ve known the road:
I’ve trudged it, too, lad: and your feet are bleeding.
I’ll bathe them for you, Jim, before you go:
And you shall have a pair of Michael’s boots.

JIM:
So, I may have young master’s cast-off boots,
Since he’s stepped into my shoes--a fair swap!
And tug my forelock, like a lousy tinker;
And whine God bless the master of this house,
Likewise the mistress, too ... By gox, I’ve come
To charity--Jim Barrasford’s come to mooch
For charity at Krindlesyke! Shanks’s mare’s
A sorry nag at best; and lets you down,
Sooner or later, for certain--the last straw,
When a man can’t trust his feet, and his own legs
Give under him, in his need, and bring him down
A devasher in the ditch as the dogs are on him!
You’re sorry? I don’t know. How can I tell?
You’re sly, you faggit; but don’t get over Jim