A Field in England

Friend:
You think about a thing before you touch it, am I right?

Whitehead:
Is that not usual?

Friend:
Not in Essex.

Whitehead:
Have you ever looked up?

Friend:
Sounds badly paid.

Whitehead:
The coward is here.

O'Neil:
You cannot escape the field, Whitehead!

Whitehead:
Then I shall become it! I shall consume all the ill fortune which you are set to unleash. I shall chew up all the selfish scheming and ill intentions that men like you force upon men like me, and bury it in the stomach of this place!

Friend:
It does not surprise me that the Devil is an Irishman, though I thought perhaps a little taller.

Friend:
I think I have worked out what God is punishing us for. Everything.

Friend:
When you get to the alehouse, see a way to get a message to my wife.

Jacob:
Anything, Friend. Anything.

Friend:
Tell her... tell her I hate her. Tell her I did burn her father's barn. 'Twas payment for forcing our marriage. Tell her I loved her sister. Who I had. Many times. From behind. Like a beautiful prize sow.

Jacob:
If I'd have known that, I would have paid you more respect, brother.

Whitehead:
[after coughing up stones carved with mysterious symbols] Well, I have no recollection of consuming anything of the remotest sort.

O'Neil:
A man can hold a great deal inside that he does not comprehend. I am not familiar with these symbols, though.

Whitehead:
Nor I. I feel... Suddenly empty.

O'Neil:
Then maybe you should keep your mouth shut unless something else should rush in while you're not paying attention, because you are apparently nothing more than an envelope.

[repeated line]

O'Neil:
Open up and let the Devil in!

Jacob:
I'm going to have a sh*t.

[Grunting and Panting]

Friend:
Sounds like hard work. Is it a boy or a girl?

Jacob:
F*** off! Ah, f***ing nettles.

Friend:
Yeah. You all right? You've got sh*t on you as well.

Jacob:
Help me up. You never seen a man have a sh*t before? Go on, f*** off.

Jacob:
Friend. My business with your man is concluded. If 'tis all the same, I might bob off now. I confess I feel peaky. Could you do a few hours' kip?

O'Neil:
Do not address me as friend and do not speak to me directly again. Otherwise I'll turn you into a frog.

Jacob:
Am I bewitched?

Whitehead:
No. Sir, you merely suffer a disease in the private parts, occasioned by too much venereal sport.

Jacob:
'This all?

Whitehead:
Well, I also deduce gout, bloody flux, apostem of the mouth, the pissing disease, St. Anthony's fire, iliac passion, hemorrhoids and palsy brought on by drink.

Jacob:
Then, I'm not turn into a frog?

Whitehead:
'Tis the one complaint you do not suffer besides plague. All I can do is administer a poultice to your yard, to soothe.

Jacob:
Thank you.

Jacob:
Sooner I get back to f***ing London, the f***ing better. A new f***ing coat. F***ing doors that f***ing shout. And citizens that pay small f***ing reckoning to astrology. I would rather die of the f***ing plague in the f***ing fleet than spend another f***ing minute in the countryside.

Jacob:
He's the king of cold-hearted bastards, I'll give him that. Could do with more like him in the ranks.

Jacob:
Am I bewitched?

Whitehead:
No. Sir, you merely suffer a disease in the private parts, occasioned by too much venereal sport.

Jacob:
'This all?

Whitehead:
Well, I also deduce gout, bloody flux, apostem of the mouth, the pissing disease, St. Anthony's fire, iliac passion, haemorrhoids and palsy brought on by drink.

Jacob:
Then, I'm not turn into a frog?

Whitehead:
'Tis the one complaint you do not suffer besides plague. All I can do is administer a poultice to your yard, to soothe.

Jacob:
Thank you.

Jacob:
Sooner I get back to f***ing London, the f***ing better. A new f***ing coat. F***ing doors that f***ing shut. And citizens that pay small f***ing reckoning to astrology. I would rather die of the f***ing plague in the f***ing fleet than spend another f***ing minute in the countryside.