[enters, wiping his face and looking at the corner of the ceiling, sings a terribly boring song; heads fall asleep on the words "sutton," "own," "servant." He gets no further than the third verse] 

To be, or not to be 
Of great capacity, 
        Like Sir Isaac Newton, 
Or Locke, or Doctor South, 
Or Sherlock upon death? 
        I'd rather be Sutton. 

For he did build a house 
For aged men & youth, 
        With walls of brick & stone. 
He furnish'd it within 
With whatever he could win, 
        And all his own. 

He drew out of the Stocks 
His money in a box, 
        And sent his servant 
To Green the Bricklayer 
And to the Carpenter: 
        He was so fervent.

[only one awake, attacks ANGLE to shut him up] Wonderful, wonderful, do it again, again, again!

Nooo!

Column, you sing!

Oh yes, yes, why of course. 

This city & this country has brought forth many mayors, 
To sit in state & give forth laws out of their old oak chairs, 
With face as brown as any nut with drinking of strong ale; 
Good English hospitality, O then it did not fail! 

With scarlet gowns & broad gold lace would make a yeoman sweat, 
With stockings roll'd above their knees & shoes as black as jet, 
With eating beef & drinking beer, O they were stout and hale! 
Good English hospitality, O then it did not fail!