Your grave is dug ready, your coffin bespoke.
The worms in your body will live at their ease;—
But I have orders, without delay,
On Master’s behalf to fetch in your soul.
Peer.
It can’t be! Like this, without any warning——!
The Button-moulder.
It’s an old tradition at burials and births
To appoint in secret the day of the feast,
With no warning at all to the guest of honour.