A woman who utters such disgusting and depressing noise has no right to be anywhere--no right to live. Remember that you are a human being with a soul and the divine gift of articulate speech: that your native language is the language of Shakespeare and Milton and The Bible; don't sit there crooning like a bilious pigeon.
Look at her: a prisoner of the gutter,
Condemned by every syllable she utters,
By right she should be taken out and hung,
For the cold-blooded murder of the English tongue.
(very indignant)

It's "ow" and "garn" that keep her in her place,
Not her wretched clothes and dirty face.
Why can't the English teach their children how to speak?
This verbal class distinction, by now, should be antique.
If you spoke as she does, sir, instead of the way you do,
Why you might be selling flowers too.

An Englishman's way of speaking absolutely classifies him.
The moment he talks, he makes some other Englishman despise him.
One common language I'm afraid we'll never get.
Oh why can't the English learn to--

Set a good example to people, who's English, is painful to your ears.
The Scotch and the Irish leave you close to tears!
There are even places where English completely disappears,
Why, in America they haven't spoken it for years.

Why can't the English teach their children how to speak?
Norwegians learn Norwegian; the Greeks are taught their Greek.
In France every Frenchman knows his language from "A" to "Zed"--
The French don't care what they do, actually, as long as they
pronounce it properly.

Arabians learn Arabian with the speed of summer lightning.
The Hebrews learn it backwards which is absolutely frightening.
Use proper English, you're regarded as a freak.
Oh why can't the English--
Why can't the English learn to speak?

Well, I haven't. I find that the moment I let any woman make friends with me, she becomes jealous, exacting, suspicious, and a damned nuisance. And I find that the moment that I make friends with a woman, I become selfish and tyrannical. So here I am, a confirmed old bachelor, and likely to remain so.

I'm an ordinary man,
who desires nothing more than just an ordinary chance,
to live exactly as he likes, and do precisely what he wants...
An average man am I, of no eccentric whim,
Who likes to live his life, free of strife,
doing whatever he thinks is best for him,
Well... just an ordinary man...

BUT, let a woman in your life
and your serenity is through,
she'll redecorate your home,
from the cellar to the dome,
and then go to the enthralling fun of overhauling you...

Let a woman in your life,
and you're up against a wall,
make a plan and you will find,
she has something else in mind,
and so rather than do either you do something else that neither likes at all.

You want to talk of Keats or Milton, she only wants to talk of love,
You go to see a play or ballet, and spend it searching for her glove,
Let a woman in your life and you invite eternal strife,
Let them buy their wedding bands for those anxious little hands...
I'd be equally as willing for a dentist to be drilling than to ever let
a woman in my life.

I'm a very gentle man,
even-tempered and good-natured whom you never hear complain,
Who has the milk of human kindness by the quart in every vein,
A patient man am I, down to my fingertips,
The sort who never could, ever would, let an insulting remark escape his lips.
A very gentle man.

BUT, let a woman in your life, and patience hasn't got a chance.
She will beg you for advice, your reply will be concise, and she'll listen very nicely, and go out and do precisely what she wants!

You are a man of grace and polish who never spoke above a hush,
now all at once you're using language that would a sailor blush,
Let a woman in your life, and you're plunging in a knife,
Let the others of my sex, tie the knot around their necks,
I'd prefer a new edition of the Spanish Inquisition than to ever let a
woman in my life.

I'm a quiet living man,
who prefers to spend the evenings in the silence of his room,
who likes an atmosphere as restful as an undiscovered tomb,
A pensive man am I, of philosophic joys,
who likes to meditate, comtemplate, free from humanity's mad inhuman noise,
A quiet living man.

BUT, let a woman in your life, and your sabbatical is through,
in a line that never ends come an army of her friends,
come to jabber, and to chatter, and to tell her what the matter is with YOU!
She'll have a booming boisterous family,
who will descend on you en mass,
She'll have a large wagnerian mother, with a voice that shatters glass.
Let a woman in your life, let a woman in your life,
I shall never let a woman in my life.

What am I? I ask you, what am I? I'm one of the undeservin' poor: that's what I am. Now think what that means to a man. It means he's up against middle class morality for all o' time. If there's anythin' goin', and I puts in for a bit of it, it's always the same story: "You're undeservin'; so you can't have it." But my needs is as great as the most deservin' widows that ever got money out of six different charities in one week for the death of the same husband. I don't need less than a deservin' man: I need more. I don't eat less hearty than he does; and I drink--oh, a lot more. I'm playin' straight with you. I ain't pretendin' to be deservin'. No I'm undeservin'; and I mean to go on bein' undeservin'. I like it; and that's the truth. But will you take advantage of a man's nature to do him out of the price of his own daughter what he's brought up and fed and clothed by the sweat of his brow until shes growed big enough to be interestin' to you two gentlemen? Well is five pounds unreasonable? I put it to you; and I leave it to you.

Pickering: if we were to take this man in hand for three months, he
could choose between a seat in the Cabinet and a popular pulpit in
Wales. We'd better give him a fiver.

He'll make a bad use of it, I'm afraid.

Ah not me, Guvnor, so help me I won't. Just one good spree for myself and the missus, givin' pleasure to ourselves and enjoyment to others, and satisfaction to you to know it ain't been thrown away. You couldn't spend it better.

(taking out his pocket book)
This is irresistible. Let's give him ten.

What in all of heaven could've promted her to go,
After such a triumph as the ball?
What could've depressed her;
What could've possessed her?
I cannot understand the wretch at all.

Women are irrational, that's all there is to that!
There heads are full of cotton, hay, and rags!
They're nothing but exasperating, irritating vacillating, calculating,
Maddening and infuriating hags!

Why can't a woman be more like a man?
Men are so honest, so thoroughly square;
Eternally noble, historic'ly fair;
Who, when you win, will always give your back a pat.
Well, why can't a woman be like that?
Why does ev'ryone do what the others do?
Can't a woman learn to use her head?
Why do they do ev'rything their mothers do?
Why don't they grow up-- well, like their father instead?

Why can't a woman take after a man?
Men are so pleasant, so easy to please;
Whenever you are with them, you're always at ease.
Would you be slighted if I didn't speak for hours?
Of course not!
Would you be livid if I had a drink or two?
Would you be wounded if I never sent you flowers?
Well, why can't a woman be like you?

One man in a million may shout a bit.
Now and then there's one with slight defects;
One, perhaps, whose truthfulness you doubt a bit.
But by and large we are a marvelous sex!
Why can't a woman take after a man?
Cause men are so friendly, good natured and kind.
A better companion you never will find.
If I were hours late for dinner, would you bellow?
Of course not!
If I forgot your silly birthday, would you fuss?
Would you complain if I took out another fellow?
Well, why can't a woman be like us?

Why can't a woman be more like a man?
Men are so decent, such regular chaps.
Ready to help you through any mishaps.
Ready to buck you up whenever you are glum.
Why can't a woman be a chum?
Why is thinking something women never do?
I mean, why is logic never even tried?
Straight'ning up their hair is all they ever do.
Why don't they straighten up the mess that's inside?
Why can't a woman behave like a man?
If I was a woman who'd been to a ball,
Been hailed as a princess by one and by all;
Would I start weeping like a bathtub overflowing?
And carry on as if my home were in a tree?
Would I run off and never tell me where I'm going?
Why can't a woman be like me?

My manners are exactly the same as Colonel Pickering!
That's not true: he treats a flower girl as if she were a duchess.
Well, I treat a duchess as if she were a flower girl.
Oh, I see; the same to everybody.
Just so. You see the great secret, Eliza, is not a question of good
manners, or bad manners, or any particular sort of manner, but having the same manner for all human souls. The question is not whether I treat you rudely but whether you've ever heard me treat anyone else better.

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Background:  "Pygmalian and Galatea," by Jean-Leon Gerome