2nd S.W. He is coming here. [Gets up hastily and trips over the velvet. Enter a youth with branches of laurel and ivy. He puts them on a table, and is about to retire when the fiddler enters playing and bowing.]
The Youth. What do you here, old scraping John?
Fiddler. More than you, fellow of discord, with idle arms.
The Youth [angrily]. They are only waiting to pound thee.
Fiddler. I am my Lord’s servant more than you. He has many boys like you who can stand and stare, but only one who can fiddle.
The Youth [advancing]. Look to thyself. Thy catgut will not shield thee much.
Fiddler [from behind the table]. Help, help, Master Crompe!
The Women [rising and flinging the velvet over the chair]. Help, help—porter, cook, men, all of you!
1st S.W. [to the youth]. Boy, do not brawl in the presence chamber.
2nd S.W. No, no, it is foolish. We each must work to-day that we may dance another day. And how can we dance if you break the fiddler’s head?