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.

Columbine:  There isn’t a sign of a moon, Pierrot.

Pierrot:  Of course not. 
There never was.  “Moon’s” just a word to swear by. 
“Mutton!”—­now there’s a thing you can lay the hands on,
And set the tooth in!  Listen, Columbine: 
I always lied about the moon and you. 
Food is my only lust.

Columbine:  Well, eat it, then,
For Heaven’s sake, and stop your silly noise! 
I haven’t heard the clock tick for an hour.

Pierrot:  It’s ticking all the same.  If you were a fly,
You would be dead by now.  And if I were a parrot,
I could be talking for a thousand years!

    [Enter cothurnus.]

Pierrot:  Hello, what’s this, for God’s sake?—­
What’s the matter? 
Say, whadda you mean?—­get off the stage, my friend,
And pinch yourself,—­you’re walking in your sleep!

Cothurnus:  I never sleep.

Pierrot:  Well, anyhow, clear out. 
You don’t belong on here.  Wait for your own scene! 
Whadda you think this is,—­a dress-rehearsal?

Cothurnus:  Sir, I am tired of waiting.  I will wait
No longer.

Pierrot:  Well, but whadda you going to do? 
The scene is set for me!

Cothurnus:  True, sir; yet I
Can play the scene.

Pierrot:  Your scene is down for later!

Cothurnus:  That, too, is true, sir; but I play it now.

Pierrot:  Oh, very well!—­Anyway, I am tired
Of black and white.  At least, I think I am.

    [Exit Columbine.]

Yes, I am sure I am.  I know what I’ll do!—­
I’ll go and strum the moon, that’s what I’ll do. . . . 
Unless, perhaps . . . you never can tell . . .  I may be,
You know, tired of the moon.  Well, anyway,
I’ll go find Columbine. . . .  And when I find her,
I will address her thus:  “Ehe, Pierrette!”—­
There’s something in that.

    [Exit Pierrot.]

Cothurnus:  You, Thyrsis!  Corydon! 
Where are you?

Thyrsis:  [Off stage.] Sir, we are in our dressing-room!

Cothurnus:  Come out and do the scene.

Corydon:  [Off stage.] You are mocking us!—­
The scene is down for later.

Cothurnus:  That is true;
But we will play it now.  I am the scene.
[Seats himself on high place in back of stage.]

    [Enter Corydon and Thyrsis.]

Corydon:  Sir, we are counting on this little hour. 
We said, “Here is an hour,—­in which to think
A mighty thought, and sing a trifling song,
And look at nothing.”—­And, behold! the hour,
Even as we spoke, was over, and the act begun,
Under our feet!