Fly (angrily). Bzzzzzzzzzz!
Cricket. There! Did you ever hear a more disagreeable racket?
Muffet (covering her face with her hands). O, what shall I do? My birthday party is being spoiled!
Dairymaids (covering their faces with their hands). Yes, her party is being spoiled!
(Cricket and Fly disdainfully fold their arms, and turn their backs on each other. Music. Enter, right, in a dignified manner, Wise Mole and Three Field-Mice. They bow low before Miss Muffet.)
Muffet. How glad I am to see you, Wise Mole, and you dear counsellors, the Field-Mice! What should I do without you all to guide me when I get into trouble?
Mole. You have evidently been weeping, my dear Queen—and on your birthday, too! What dreadful thing can have happened? (Looking about uneasily.) Surely you have not seen the black Spider again?
Muffet and Dairymaids. O, no, no, no!
Mole. Tell me about it, whatever it may be.
Muffet. Why, I cannot make up my mind which I would prefer for a husband—the Cricket, or the Fly. One has a beautiful song; the other, beautiful wings. They are both angry, and insist on knowing which one shall sit upon the tuffet with me.