PIERROT: But why?--well, as to that, my dear,
I cannot say. It's just a matter of form.

COLUMBINE: Pierrot, I'm getting tired of caviar
And peacocks' livers. Isn't there something else
That people eat?--some humble vegetable,
That grows in the ground?

PIERROT: Well, there are mushrooms.

COLUMBINE: Mushrooms!
That's so! I had forgotten . . . mushrooms . . . mushrooms. . . .
I cannot _live_ with . . . How do you like this gown?

PIERROT: Not much. I'm tired of gowns that have the waist-line
About the waist, and the hem around the bottom,--
And women with their breasts in front of them!--
Zut and ehe! Where does one go from here!

COLUMBINE: Here's a persimmon, love. You always liked them.

PIERROT: I am become a critic; there is nothing
I can enjoy. . . . However, set it aside;
I'll eat it between meals.

COLUMBINE: Pierrot, do you know,
Sometimes I think you're making fun of me.

PIERROT: My love, by yon black moon, you wrong us both.