WAGONMAKER. Go on, Shoemaker! Now comes the aria; it must be
rendered with feeling. Then you shall see that the burgomaster will
wake up!

SHOEMAKER. [Sings aria.]

ARIA.
The breath of the rose and carnation-bud's fragrance, 'mongst
wonder-flowers' fated!
As false at heart
As glitter-wave,
She held toward him her billowy hair,
Where all the ocean's freshness breathes.
And lily so red and lily so white
Confidingly muse on death and life.

CHIROPODIST. That was a rare strophe! But it doesn't seem to have
any special bearing upon the subject and our present conditions.
Where did you get it?

SHOEMAKER. Well, you see, I have an apprentice at home who is one
of your idealists; he does things of this sort when he's free, on
Sundays.

WAGONMAKER. If I may venture an opinion, I think it inconceivably
difficult to get at the pith of the strophe.

SHOEMAKER. That's just the fine point, you see! But hush--methinks
we have the rain here. [Puts on coat.]