Take off your bonnet; and make yourself at home.
I trust tea’s ready, mother: I’m fairly famished.
I’ve hardly had a bite, and not a sup
To wet my whistle since forenoon: and dod!
But getting married is gey hungry work.
I’m hollow as a kex in a ditch-bottom:
And just as dry as Molly Miller’s milkpail
She bought, on the chance of borrowing a cow.
Eh, Phœbe, lass! But you’ve stopped laughing, have you?
And you look fleyed: there’s nothing here to scare you:
We’re quiet folk at Krindlesyke. Come, mother,
Have you no word of welcome for the lass,
That you gape like a foundered ewe at us? What ghost
Has given you a gliff, and set you chittering?
Come, shake yourself, before I rax your bones;
And give my bride the welcome due to her--
My bride, the lady I have made my wife.
Poor lass, she’s quaking like a dothery-dick.

ELIZA (_to PHŒBE_):
Daughter, may you ...

EZRA (_crooning, unseen, to the baby_):

“Dance for your mammy,
Dance for your daddy ...”

JIM:
What ails the old runt now?
You mustn’t heed him, Phœbe, lass: he’s blind