(The Waits enter from right, tuning instruments and show fear of Robin's men, who advance threateningly towards them.)
Robin (hectoring)—And who gave ye leave to break the mighty silence of our wood?
Wait (deprecatingly)—Softly, Kind Master, we be but simple singers come to joy yon lonely widow with songs of Christmas-tide.
Robin—Singers, idle and vain, we'll have ye know 'tis death to enter here without our license.
Waits—We be waits, good sir, and have ever license to sing the birth of Christ our Lord, born this day.
Robin (scornfully)—And what be waits?
Wait (with solemnity)—We wait upon the coming of our Lord, Son of Mary and Heaven's Almighty King. And while we patient wait, we sing.
Robin (appeased)—Waits, that's better, and who gave word of this widow and her dozen brats?