Conan: Now I to make the world—
Mother: You are not saying you would make a
better hand of it?
Conan: I am certain sure I could.
Mother: Ah, don't be talking that way!
Conan: I'd make changes you'd wonder at.
Celia: It's likely you'd make the world in one
day in place of six.
Mother: It's best make changes little by little
the same as you'd put clothes upon a growing
child, and to knock every day out of what God
will give you, and to live as long as we can, and
die when we can't help it.
Conan: And the first thing I'd do would be to
give you back your memory and your sense. (Sings.)
(Air, "The Bells of Shandon.")
"My brain grows rusty, my mind is dusty,
The time I'm dwelling with the likes of ye,