These gentlemen are strangers; in their face

One reads they lack the breeding of the place;

They’re not an hour arrived, I warrant thee.

Frosch.

There you are right!—Leipzig’s the place, I say!

It is a little Paris in its way.

Siebel.

What, think you, may the strangers be?

Frosch.

Leave that to me!—I’ll soon fish out the truth.