THE DAUGHTER. I leave. Follow me, and you shall learn the riddle.
THE POET. Which riddle?
THE DAUGHTER. What did he mean with "my lucre"?
THE POET. Probably nothing at all. That kind of thing we call talk. He was just talking.
THE DAUGHTER. But it was what hurt me more than anything else!
THE POET. That is why he said it, I suppose—Men are that way.
ALL RIGHT-MINDED. Hooray! The door is open.
LORD CHANCELLOR. What was behind the door?
THE GLAZIER. I can see nothing.
LORD CHANCELLOR. He cannot see anything—of course, he cannot! Deans of the Faculties: what was behind that door?