When cherry boughs white on yon mounting hill
Hang over the tufts o' the daffodil.
For what's to be done--what's to be done?
Of three that woo I must e'en take one,
Or there's no sense in it under the sun,
And
What's to be done--what's to be done?

_V_. (_aside_). What's to be done, indeed!

_Wife_ (_aside_). Done! nothing, love.
Either the thing has done itself, or _they_
Must undo. Did they call for fiddler Sam?
Well, now they have him.


[_More tuning heard outside_.

_Mrs. J_. (_aside_). Live and let live's my motto.

_Mrs. T_. So 't is mine.
Who's Sam, that he must fly in Parson's face?
He's had his turn. He never gave these lights,
Cut his best flowers--

_Mrs. S_. (_aside_). He takes no pride in us.
Speak up, good neighbour, get the window shut.

_Mrs. J_. (_rising_). I ask your pardon truly, that I do--
La! but the window--there's a parlous draught;