MARY DOUL -- [defiantly.] -- When the skin shrinks on your chin,
Molly Byrne, there won't be the like of you for a shrunk hag in
the four quarters of Ireland. . . . It's a fine pair you'd be,
surely!

[Martin Doul is standing at back right centre, with his back to
the audience.]

TIMMY -- [coming over to Mary Doul.] -- Is it no shame you have
to let on she'd ever be the like of you?

MARY DOUL. It's them that's fat and flabby do be wrinkled young,
and that whitish yellowy hair she has does be soon turning the
like of a handful of thin grass you'd see rotting, where the wet
lies, at the north of a sty. (Turning to go out on right.) Ah,
it's a better thing to have a simple, seemly face, the like of my
face, for two-score years, or fifty itself, than to be setting
fools mad a short while, and then to be turning a thing would
drive off the little children from your feet.

[She goes out; Martin Doul has come forward again, mastering
himself, but uncertain.]

TIMMY. Oh, God protect us, Molly, from the words of the blind.
(He throws down Martin Doul's coat and stick.) There's your old
rubbish now, Martin Doul, and let you take it up, for it's all
you have, and walk off through the world, for if ever I meet you
coming again, if it's seeing or blind you are itself, I'll bring
out the big hammer and hit you a welt with it will leave you easy