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No. 10: Chorus with solos (Nita, Pietro and Bartolo)

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Chiavari without. Enter Chorus of Girls, running and heralding the approach of
PIETRO, BARTOLO, and NITA. PIETRO is driving a Palermo donkey-cart. BARTOLO is dressed as a clown. NITA as a rope-dancer. BARTOLO carries a big drum and
Pandean pipes.

  Tabor and drum!
Mummers have come!
    Hey for their mummery,
Frolic and flummery!
  For to my dull
Countrified skull
    Nothing sublunary
Equals buffoonery!
  Folks of our kind
Frequently find
    Jokes that are sensible
  Here, I admit,
Genuine wit,
    As a commodity,
Ranks below oddity.
As a commodity,
Ranks below oddity.
Lionel Brough as Pietro

PIETRO. Come, strike up, Mister Merryman, while I inform the universe,
    In metrical and tuny verse —
BARTOLO.   In metrical and tuny verse —
PIETRO. That here’s an exhibition that is highly intellectual —
    To see it we expect you all —
BARTOLO.   To see it we expect you all.
PIETRO. Come, empty all your pockets, for I’m not a common mountebank,
    I’ve money in the County Bank —
BARTOLO.   He’s money in the County Bank.
PIETRO. And I can give you value for your coppers insignificant —
    And I’ll return ’em if I can’t —
BARTOLO.   And he’ll return ’em if he can’t.


  Though I’m a buffoon, recollect
    I command your respect!
      I cannot for money
Be vulgarly funny,
  My object’s to make you reflect!
  True humour’s a matter in which
    I’m exceedingly rich.
      It ought to delight you,
Although, at first sight, you
    May not recognize it as sich.
Other clowns make you laugh till you sink,
    When they tip you a wink;
      With attitude antic,
They render you frantic —
    I don’t. I compel you to think!
For, oh, this is a world of insincerity and trouble,
And joy is imbecility and happiness a bubble,
And you’re a lot of butterflies who flutter through a summer,
And he’s a mountebank, and I’m a miserable mummer!

  It’s possible the world is insincerity and trouble,
And happiness, for all I know, is nothing but a bubble;
Perhaps we may be butterflies who flutter through a summer,
And you’re, without a doubt, a very miserable mummer!

NITA (dancing).
    I’ve a dance
That came from France
      Not long ago —
  It’s worthy of your silver and your copper.
    It’s my own
And I alone
      Its mazes know —
  It’s graceful and particularly proper.
    I assist
As soloist,
      Upon a squeeze,
  On the trumpet and the kettledrum sonorous,.
    I’ve a song
That’s just as long
      As you may please —
  Twenty verses, and each verse has got a chorus!

  Now that’s the kind of merriment you ought to set before us;
Only fancy — twenty verses, and each verse has got a chorus.
To such an entertainment we could listen for a summer;
But save us from the humour of this melancholy mummer!

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