First Yokel: 'tis that Thomas Hardy's birthday again.
Second Yokel: Aye.
1Y: Odd that. I thought he had one last year.
2Y: That he did.
1Y: He must be mortal sharp, to have a birthday every year.
2Y: That he be.
1Y: Shall us up-along to Peter's Finger in Mixen Lane, for a pretty little drap o' tipple afore nammit-tide?
2Y: Wi' all my heart. But 'Spoons is cheaper.
1Y: 'Tis truth. And 'tis Monday Club.
2Y: Then let us away and fill our empty hearts with cheap Greene King.
A folk tune, played by a mystical fiddler, drifts across the heath. Milkmaids swoon and crows fall from the sky. While, afar off, on Casterbridge gallows, can just be seen the body of a hanged man.
