Pierrot. I say, that gives me an idea for a song.
Pierrette. Out with it, then.
Pierrot. Well, I haven't exactly formed it yet. This is what flashed through my mind as you spoke: [He runs up on to the table, using it as a stage.]
"Life's a ball of worsted,
Unwind it if you can,
You who oft have boasted
[He pauses for a moment, then hurriedly, in order to gloss over the false accenting.]
That you are a man."
Of course that's only a rough idea.
Pierrette. Are you going to sing it at the show?
Pierrot [jumping down from the table]. You're always so lukewarm. A man of artistic ideas is as sensitively skinned as a baby.
Pierrette. Do stay in, Pierrot. It's so cold outside.