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No. 8: Duet (Woodpecker & Marchioness)
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Woodpecker.
  The slave of impulse I,
Born 'neath the azure sky
    Of beautiful Firenze.
  With fierce desires I brim,
When I conceive a whim,
    That whim becomes a frenzy!
  A wish ungratified,
Wounds my Italian pride,
    Like stab of sharp stiletto.
  My blood is turned to gall,
I cannot sing — I squall,
And, this is worst of all —
    Away, away, away goes my falsetto,
My exquisite falsetto!

Marchioness. (aside.) Woodpecker.
  Oh, heavens! Should it befall,
My guests it will appal,
If, when assembled all —
    My blood is turned to gall,
I cannot sing — I squall,
And, this is worst of all —
    Away, away, away goes his falsetto!
His exquisite falsetto!
    Away, away, away goes my falsetto,
My exquisite falsetto!

Marchioness.
  Lord of the Upper G,
By peers of high degree
    Assiduously courted!
  Falsettist all divine,
No heaven-sent whim of thine
    Ought ever to be thwarted.
  Society should strain
Each nerve to spare thee pain,
    Whatever's on the tapis;
  The impulse I admire
That's born of Southern fire;
I know what you require —
    Here — take it, and be happy.
    (Takes off her shoe and gives it to him.)
    Take it, and be happy.

Marchioness. (hopping.) Woodpecker. (puzzled.)
  The impulse I admire
That's born of Southern fire:
I know what you require —
I know what you require —
Too well what you require —
  Although I much desire
A part of your attire,
That's not what I require —
That's not what I require —
That's not what I require —
    Here, take it, take it,
Take it, and be happy,
Take it, and be happy!
    That, that,
No that will not, no that
Will not make me happy!

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