Muffet. Please, please do not use the word “black” any oftener than you cannot help. It reminds me of that horrible, crawly, eight-legged creature who lives in a—ugh!—in a web!
Second Dairymaid. Pardon me, Miss Muffet, but is it true that the Sp—— I mean that this creature dropped down from a tree the other day and asked you to be his Queen, and live in his—den?
Muffet. Yes, yes, of course, it’s true; but change the subject, I beg of you. (Enter, left, Fly; right, Cricket. They advance toward Muffet, glowering angrily at each other. Each kisses a hand of Muffet at the same moment.) I am so glad you could come, both of you.
Fly (pointing at Cricket). What is he here for, I’d like to know?
Cricket (pointing at Fly). And what is he here for, pray?
Muffet. O, I do hope you won’t quarrel—to-day, especially. I think a great deal of you both; don’t I, Dairymaids?
Dairymaids. Of course you do!
Fly. That’s the worst news I could possibly hear, Miss Muffet. Do you mean to say that you like that plain black fellow better than you do me? Why, just look at my wings! I really think you might choose me as your King of the Meadow!
Cricket. How can you listen to such talk, Miss Muffet? That Fly is nothing but a vain popinjay, strutting and buzzing around! He can’t sing. I’m the right kind of King for you, every time!