This page needs to be proofread.
PEER
- You're sent for? What do you want?
THE BUTTON-MOULDER
- Why, see here;
- I'm a button-moulder. You're to go into my ladle.
PEER
- And what to do there?
THE BUTTON-MOULDER
- To be melted up.
PEER
- To be melted?
THE BUTTON-MOULDER
- Here it is, empty and scoured.
- Your grave is dug ready, your coffin bespoke.
- The worms in your body will live at their ease;-
- but I have orders, without delay,
- on Master's behalf to fetch in your soul.
PEER
- It can't be! Like this, without any warning-!
THE BUTTON-MOULDER
- It's an old tradition at burials and births
- to appoint in secret the day of the feast,
- with no warning at all to the guest of honour.
PEER
- Ay, ay, that's true. All my brain's awhirl.
- You are-?
THE BUTTON-MOULDER
- Why, I told you-a button-moulder.
