Like a plucked hen’s. But she’d a merry eye,
The giglet; and that coppertop of hers
Was good to think on of a nippy morning:
While you--but you were young then ...

ELIZA:
Young and daft.

EZRA:
Nay, not so gite; for I was handsome then.

ELIZA:
Ay, the braw birkie of that gairishon
Of menseless slubberdegullions: and I trusted
My eyes, and other people’s tongues, in those days:
And you’d a tongue to glaver a guff of a girl,
The devil’s own; and whatever’s gone from you,
You’ve still a tongue, though with a difference:
Now it’s all edge.

EZRA:
The knife that spreads the butter
Will slice the loaf. But it’s sharper than my teeth.

ELIZA:
Ay, tongues cut deeper than any fang can bite,
Sore-rankling wounds.

EZRA:
You talk of tongues! I’m deaf: