And now we hush the melancholy fiddlers. If this comedy can stir the croaking bass-viol to any show of mirth, our work tops Falstaff. Glum folk with beards had best withdraw. Only the young in heart will catch the slender meaning of our play. Let's light the candles and draw the curtain!
Patch: Darlin'! Darlin'! (He lolls back in his chair and stretches out his legs for comfort.) Darlin'!
(At this a dirty old woman with one tooth appears from the kitchen. She is called Darlin' just for fun, as she is not at all kissable. A sprig of mistletoe, even in the Christmas season, would beckon vainly.)
Patch: Me friend, the Duke, is thirsty. Will yer fill the cups? Hurry, ol' dear! And squeeze in jest a bit o' lemon. It sets the stomich.
Darlin': Yer sets yer stomich like it were hen's eggs. Alers coddlin' it.
(She stirs and tastes the pot of grog, and hoists her wrinkled stockings.)
Duke: There 's no one like Darlin' fer mixin' grog.
Darlin': Fer that kind word I 'm lovin' yer. (She looks at him with admiration.) Ain 't he a figger o' a man? Wenus was nothin'. Jest nothin' at all.
Patch: It 's grog beats off the melancholy. As soon as me pipes go dry, I gets homesick fer the ocean. Here we be, Duke, thrown up at last ter rot like driftwood on the shore. No more sailin' off to Trinidad! No tackin' 'round the Hebrides! We is ships as has sprung a leak. It was 'appy days when we sailed with ol' Flint on the Spanish Main.
Duke: 'Appy days, Patch! (They drink.)