Clara. Will you not hold the yarn for me, Brackenburg?
Brackenburg. I entreat you, excuse me, Clara.
Clara. What ails you? Why refuse me this trifling service?
Brackenburg. When I hold the yarn, I stand as it were spell-bound before you, and cannot escape your eyes.
Clara. Nonsense! Come and hold!
Mother (knitting in her arm-chair). Give us a song! You used to be merry once, and I had always something to laugh at.
Brackenburg. Once!
Clara. Well, let us sing.
Brackenburg. As you please.
Clara. Merrily, then, and sing away! 'Tis a soldier's song, my favourite.