Jane. Oh, Tommy, aren't you half afraid you've ate enough to poison you?
Tommy. No, that I'm not—so there now! &c., &c.
[They dance as before.
Tommy. Jane, is your palate parching up in horrible aridity?
Jane. It is, and in my throat's a lump of singular solidity.
Tommy. Then that is why you're dancing with such pokerlike rigidity.
[Refrain as before; they dance with decreasing spirit, and finally stop, and fan one another with their hats.
Jane. I'm better now that on my brow there is a little breeziness.
Tommy. My passing qualm is growing calm, and tightness turns to easiness.
Jane. You seem to me tormented by a tendency to queasiness?