Peer.
You're sent for? What do you want?
The Button-moulder.
Why, see here;
I mould buttons; and you must go into my ladle.
Peer.
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.
Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 4).djvu/276
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