The Player. Wouldst thou?
Dickon. Ay.
[Sound of footsteps outside. A group approaches the door.]
Oh, here he is, come back!
The Player [rising with passionate eagerness].
Brave lad—brave lad!
Dickon [singing].
Hang out your lanthorns, trim your lights
To save your days from knavish nights!
[He plunges, with his lantern, through the doorway, stumbling against Wat Burrow, who enters, a sorry figure, the worse for wear.]
Wat [sourly].
Be the times soft, that you must try to cleave
Way through my ribs as tho' I was the moon?—
And you the man-wi-'the-lanthorn, or his dog?—
You bean!...
[Exit Dickon. Wat shambles in and sees The Player.]
What, you sir, here?