Han. Yes; he vos stone deaf in poth eyes. But I say, Mr. Poet.
Byron. Say on, Lucullus.
Han. My name vos Hannis, not Bluecollars. But as I vos saying—don’t you think, Mr. Poet, dot three vos company, two vos a crowd?
Byron. What does the gifted bard of Avon say about that? Ah, now I remember!
Two lovers alone in silent joy,
A blue-eyed maiden, a black-haired boy;
It might be better, it could be worse,
Another person would be a curse.
Han. Then vhy don’t you dake a tumbles and fly avay mit yourself?
Byron. I do not understand you.