ISABEL (timidly). Yes, Prince.
HANGING-LIP. She says these flowers and trees and running brooks do sing her songs. Ha, ha, ha!
PRINCE. Is this true, Isabel?
ISABEL (as before). Yes, Prince.
BROAD-THUMB. And she begs leave to write down these songs. Ha, ha, ha!
PRINCE. Is this true, Isabel?
ISABEL (hanging head). Yes, Prince.
PRINCE. Isabel, hang not your head. I'll give you time to write your songs.
QUEEN. My son—
PRINCE (interrupting). Nay, nay, mother! The songs please me better than the flat-foot and the hanging-lip and the broad-thumb of the spinners. Come, Isabel, you shall be my princess! You shall sing me your songs! You shall teach me how to gaze upon flowers and trees and running brooks, for these things have ever been dear to my heart. Come, Isabel, come!