MUS. MAS. You must not be deceived, Sir, by the name of pupil. These
kind of pupils know sometimes as much as the greatest masters; and the
air is as beautiful as possible. Only just listen to it.

MR. JOUR. (_to his_ SERVANTS). Hand me my dressing-gown, so that
may hear better.... Stay, I believe that I shall be better without....
No, give it me back again; that will be best.

THE PUPIL
All night and day I languish on;
the sick man none can save
Since those bright eyes have laid him low,
to your stern laws a slave;
If thus to those you love
a meed of care you bring,
What pain, fair Iris, will you find
your foemen's hearts to wring?

MR. JOUR. This song seems to me rather dismal; it sends one to sleep;
could you not enliven it a bit here and there?

MUS. MAS. We must, Sir, suit the air to the words.

MR. JOUR. I was taught a very pretty one quite lately; stop a moment ...
ahem ... What is it? How does it begin?

DAN. MAS. Upon my word, Sir, I do not know.

MR. JOUR. There is some lamb in it.