FID. Not I!

GUI. Why, is this? You, that are dripping with song
Weekdays, are dry of music for a wedding?

FID. I have a headache. Go and sit in a tree,
And make your own songs.

RAF. Nay, Fidelio.
String the sweet strings, man!

GIO. Strike the pretty strings!

GUI. Give us the silver strings!

FID. Nay then, I will that!

[He tears the strings off the lute and throws them in Guido's face.]

Here be the strings, my merry gentlemen!
Do you amuse yourselves with tying knots in them
And hanging one another!--I have a headache.

[He runs off, sobbing.]

RAF. What ails him, think you?

GIO. Troth, I have no notion.

[Enter Nurse.]