Friar.
Now Fiddlers, scrape away, but let the air
Be merrier than the dirge;—Why do you stare?
Since Juliet's boxed, let's ape the military,
And drown our sorrow: off in couples pair ye:
We'll have a dance,—a funeral dance; what think ye?
Don't hang your heads down thus, but drink, boys, drink ye. (Presenting a Brandy Bottle and Glass, which is passed round.)
Let every man doff his black crape and hat-band,
And skip about.

Undertaker.
Hold, Sir, I cannot that stand:
To dance without our black would be a sin.

Friar.
Well, keep it on then; now, my lads. begin.

Undertaker.
Come, the Black Joke. (To the Fiddlers.) Let's have it in a crack.

Friar.
Why the Black Joke?

Undertaker.
Because the Joke is Black. (Fiddles strike up: the Dancers, Friar, &c. arrange themselves, and the whole party finally go off dancing.)

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