’Tis ordered so, and fated;
So, dry your tears—in forty years
You may be acclimated.
Cicely. Forty years! Dear, oh, dear!
What words do I hear?—
But, please, mayn’t he give me some porridge?
Man in the Moon. [Confidentially to Lord M.]
I’m the Man in the Moon,
Who once went down too soon
To inquire the way to Norwich—