Conchubor in Emain. Conchubor's a wrinkled
fool with a swelling belly on him, and eyes
falling downward from his shining crown;
Naisi should be stale and weary. Yet there
are many roads, Deirdre, and I tell you I'd
liefer be bleaching in a bog-hole than living
on without a touch of kindness from your eyes
and voice. It's a poor thing to be so lonesome
you'd squeeze kisses on a cur dog's nose.
DEIRDRE. Are there no women like


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yourself could be your friends in Emain?
OWEN -- vehemently. -- There are none
like you, Deirdre. It's for that I'm asking are
you going back this night with Fergus?
DEIRDRE. I will go where Naisi chooses.
OWEN -- with a burst of rage. -- It's
Naisi, Naisi, is it? Then, I tell you, you'll
have great sport one day seeing Naisi getting
a harshness in his two sheep's eyes and he
looking on yourself. Would you credit it, my
father used to be in the broom and heather
kissing Lavarcham, with a little bird chirping
out above their heads, and now she'd scare a
raven from a carcase on a hill. (With a sad
cry that brings dignity into his voice.) Queens
get old, Deirdre, with their white and long