ANHALT. Yes, in prose.

BUTLER. Ah, you have neither of you ever been in love, or you would
prefer poetry to prose. But excuse [pulls out a paper] the haste in
which it was written. I heard the news in the fields--always have
paper and a pencil about me, and composed the whole forty lines
crossing the meadows and the park in my way home. [reads.]

Oh Muse, ascend the forked mount.
And lofty strains prepare,
About a Baron and a Count,
Who went to hunt the hare.

The hare she ran with utmost speed,
And sad, and anxious looks,
Because the furious hounds indeed,
Were near to her, gadzooks.

At length, the Count and Baron bold
Their footsteps homeward bended;
For why, because, as you were told,
The hunting it was ended.

Before them strait a youth appears,
Who made a piteous pother,
And told a tale with many tears,
About his dying mother.

The youth was in severe distress,