Oh let the wood, the wood be what it will, So long as I may walk on Morland Hill! Some years ago I gave my heart To Prue until we had to part; Then, seeing Susan's pretty face, I left it with her for a space; And Susan had my heart until I wanted it for Mistress Jill; I think, although I am not clear, That Chloe's had it this last year. Oh let the wench, the wench be whom you will, So long as I may walk on Morland Hill! (The TALKER comes in proudly on the last note and takes most of the applause.) DAUGHTER. I'm not sure that I like that last verse. TALKER. Oh, you mustn't believe all he sings. A cursed melancholy fellow by nature. But waggish--waggish withal. SINGER (to DAUGHTER). We have to sing what the poets write for us, Mademoiselle. Had I written a song myself, it had been about one woman only. TALKER. And there would have been a hundred and twenty-five verses to it. MOTHER. Your song was well sung, sir; I thank you for it. (To the FIDDLER) Will you not play us something now? FIDDLER. If you wish it. TALKER. You would wish me to accompany her, of course. MOTHER (with a smile). It is kind of you, sir, but I think perhaps my daughter-- DAUGHTER (eagerly). Yes, of course, I will if I can. (She goes to the spinet.) FIDDLER (playing a few notes). Do you know this? DAUGHTER. Yes, I think so. (She plays. At the end of it the TALKER finds himself bowing to the applause.) TALKER. And now, Madame, you have had a sample of all our poor talents, save and except that paltry talent of mine which in other company concludes such a performance. I pray you tell me what you think of the entertainment. MOTHER. I have enjoyed it immensely, good Master Johannes. And if you did wish to exercise that talent of yours, of which so far we have only heard-- TALKER. Nay, nay, Madame, I beg you. MOTHER. Then, Sir, I offer you my grateful thanks for your entertainment. DAUGHTER. And I too. TALKER. Ladies, you are too kind--er--(he hesitates)--er-- MOTHER. Yes? TALKER, The fact is, Madame, that now we approach or, so to speak, draw nigh or adjacent--in other words, Madame, we are perilously approximate-- FIDDLER. Tell her straight out. MOTHER. Tell her what? FIDDLER. What we've come for. SINGER. Master Johannes, Madam, is so accustomed when he goes round with the hat to disguise under it flow of words the fact that money is as necessary to an artist as applause, that he has lost the habit of saying anything in less than ten sentences. TALKER (mournfully). And yet I am a taciturn man. MOWER. Well, will somebody tell me, for I confess I have been wondering what is behind it all. FIDDLER. Tell her, Johannes. TALKER. If you will allow me, Madame. But tell me first, did you notice anything lacking in our performance? MOTHER (surprised). No; I don't think so. TALKER (to DAUGHTER). Perhaps you, Mademoiselle? DAUGHTER (shyly). It seemed to lack a woman's voice, sir.