Oh let the wood, the wood be what it will,
So long as I may walk on Morland Hill!
Some years ago I gave my heart
To Prue until we had to part;
Then, seeing Susan's pretty face,
I left it with her for a space;
And Susan had my heart until
I wanted it for Mistress Jill;
I think, although I am not clear,
That Chloe's had it this last year.
Oh let the wench, the wench be whom you will,
So long as I may walk on Morland Hill!
(The TALKER comes in proudly on the last note and takes most of the
applause.)
DAUGHTER. I'm not sure that I like that last verse.
TALKER. Oh, you mustn't believe all he sings. A cursed melancholy
fellow by nature. But waggish--waggish withal.
SINGER (to DAUGHTER). We have to sing what the poets write for us,
Mademoiselle. Had I written a song myself, it had been about one
woman only.
TALKER. And there would have been a hundred and twenty-five verses
to it.
MOTHER. Your song was well sung, sir; I thank you for it. (To the
FIDDLER) Will you not play us something now?
FIDDLER. If you wish it.
TALKER. You would wish me to accompany her, of course.
MOTHER (with a smile). It is kind of you, sir, but I think perhaps
my daughter--
DAUGHTER (eagerly). Yes, of course, I will if I can. (She goes to
the spinet.
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