For as the sun shines every day,
So, of our coachman I may say,
He shows his drunken fiery face,
Just as the sun does more or less.
Brisk. That's right, all's well, all's well—"More or less."
Lady Froth. (Reads.)
And when at night his labour's done,
Then too, like Heaven's charioteer the sun.
Ay, charioteer does better.
Into the dairy he descends,