Peer.
[Pondering.]
It is written: Thou shalt bridle the natural man;— And I daresay the drink may in time seem less sour. So be it! [Complies.
The Old Man.
Ay, that was sagaciously said.
You spit?
Peer.
One must trust to the force of habit.
The Old Man.
And next you must throw off your Christian-man's garb;
For this you must know to our Dovrë's renown:
Here all things are mountain-made, nought's from the dale,
Except the silk bow at the end of your tail.
Peer.
[Indignant.]
I haven't a tail!
The Old Man.
Then of course you must get one.
See my Sunday-tail, Chamberlain, fastened to him.
Peer.
I'll be hanged if you do! Would you make me a fool?
The Old Man.
None comes courting my child with no tail at his rear.
