Peer.
I see! A pet child has many nicknames.
So that's it, Peer; it is there you're to harbour
But these, my good man, are most unfair proceedings!
I'm sure I deserve better treatment than this;—
I'm not nearly so bad as perhaps you think,—
Indeed I've done more or less good in the world;—
At worst you may call me a sort of a bungler,—
But certainly not an exceptional sinner.
The Button-moulder.
Why that is precisely the rub, my man;
You're no sinner at all in the higher sense;
That's why you're excused all the torture-pangs,
And, like others, land in the casting-ladle.
Peer.
Give it what name you please—call it ladle or pool;[1]
Spruce ale and swipes, they are both of them beer.
Avaunt from me, Satan!
The Button-moulder.
You can't be so rude
As to take my foot for a horse's hoof?
Peer.
On horse's hoof or on fox's claws[2]—
Be off; and be careful what you're about!
The Button-moulder.
My friend, you're making a great mistake.
Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 4).djvu/277
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