No, Brother! not for me their formal ways. 
Quick! lest our game escape us in the press: 
The hand that wields the broom on Saturdays
Will best, on Sundays, fondle and caress.

CITIZEN

He suits me not at all, our new-made Burgomaster! 
Since he’s installed, his arrogance grows faster. 
How has he helped the town, I say? 
Things worsen,—­what improvement names he? 
Obedience, more than ever, claims he,
And more than ever we must pay!

BEGGAR (sings)

  Good gentlemen and lovely ladies,
  So red of cheek and fine of dress,
  Behold, how needful here your aid is,
  And see and lighten my distress! 
  Let me not vainly sing my ditty;
  He’s only glad who gives away: 
  A holiday, that shows your pity,
  Shall be for me a harvest-day!

ANOTHER CITIZEN

On Sundays, holidays, there’s naught I take delight in,
Like gossiping of war, and war’s array,
When down in Turkey, far away,
The foreign people are a-fighting. 
One at the window sits, with glass and friends,
And sees all sorts of ships go down the river gliding: 
And blesses then, as home he wends
At night, our times of peace abiding.

THIRD CITIZEN

Yes, Neighbor! that’s my notion, too: 
Why, let them break their heads, let loose their passions,
And mix things madly through and through,
So, here, we keep our good old fashions!

OLD WOMAN (to the Citizen’s Daughter)

Dear me, how fine!  So handsome, and so young! 
Who wouldn’t lose his heart, that met you? 
Don’t be so proud!  I’ll hold my tongue,
And what you’d like I’ll undertake to get you.

CITIZEN’S DAUGHTER

Come, Agatha!  I shun the witch’s sight
Before folks, lest there be misgiving: 
’Tis true, she showed me, on Saint Andrew’s Night,
My future sweetheart, just as he were living.

THE OTHER

She showed me mine, in crystal clear,
With several wild young blades, a soldier-lover: 
I seek him everywhere, I pry and peer,
And yet, somehow, his face I can’t discover.

SOLDIERS

        Castles, with lofty
        Ramparts and towers,
        Maidens disdainful
        In Beauty’s array,
        Both shall be ours! 
        Bold is the venture,
        Splendid the pay! 
        Lads, let the trumpets
        For us be suing,—­
        Calling to pleasure,
        Calling to ruin. 
        Stormy our life is;
        Such is its boon! 
        Maidens