O, 'tis the sun Has trodden on you? That's what makes you croak? Ay, whistle him somewhat: put a tune in his brain; He'll else croak us out of pleasure with drinking. Merrick: 'Tis quenching, I believe.--A tune? Too hot. You want a fiddler. Huff: Nay, I want your flute. I like a piping sound, not scraping o' guts. Merrick: This is no weather for a man to play Flutes or music at all that asks him spend His breath and spittle: you want both yourself These oven days. Wait till a fiddler comes. Huff: Who ever comes down here? Sollers: There's someone come. [Pointing with his pipe to the stranger.] Merrick: Good evening, mister. Are you a man for tunes? Stranger: And if I was I'ld give you none to-night. Merrick: Well, no offence: there's no offence, I hope, In taking a dummy for a tuneful man. Is it for can't or won't you are? Stranger: You wouldn't, if you carried in your mind What I've been carrying all day. Sollers: What's that? Stranger: You wait; you'll know about it soon; O yes, Soon enough it will find you out and rouse you. Huff: Now ain't that just the way we go down here? Here in the valley we're like dogs in a yard, Chained to our kennels and wall'd in all round, And not a sound of the world jumps over our hills. And when there comes a passenger among us, One who has heard what's stirring out beyond, 'Tis a grutchy mumchance fellow in the dismals! Stranger: News, is it, you want? I could give you news!-- I wonder, did you ever hate to feel The earth so fine and splendid? Huff: Oh, you're one Has stood in the brunt of the world's wickedness, Like me? But listen, and I'll give you a tale Of wicked things done in this little valley, Done against me, will surely make you think The Devil here fetcht up his masterpiece. Sollers: Ah, but it's hot enough without you talking Your old hell fire about that pair of sinners. Leave them alone and drink. Huff: I'll smell them grilling One of these days. Merrick: But there'll be nought to drink When that begins! Best keep your skin full now. Stranger: What do I care for wickedness? Let those Who've played with dirt, and thought the game was bold, Make much of it while they can: there's a big thing Coming down to us, ay, well on its road, Will make their ploys seem mighty piddling sport. Huff: This is a fool; or else it's what I think,-- The world now breeds such crowd that they've no room For well-grown sins: they hatch 'em small as flies. But you stay here, out of the world awhile, Here where a man's mind, and a woman's mind, Can fling out large in wickedness: you'll see Something monstrous here, something dreadful. Stranger: