Rom. Shut up; she speaks.
Jul. O Romeo! Romeo, say
Wherefore, oh, wherefore art thou Romeo, pray?
Rom. Well, really, madam, that’s a poser, rather:
I really think you’d better ask my father.
Song, “Romeo.” Air, “Pat Molloy.”
At fourteen years of age I was a tall and strapping lad:
My father had the oil-fever, and had it awful bad.
“I’m hard up, Romeo,” says he, “and cannot raise the tin:
My copper stocks are getting low; I really must give in.”