Beef. -nity-he would have added, but stern death Cut short his being, and the noun at once!" Puff. Oh, my dear sir, you are too slow: now mind me.—Sir, shall I trouble you to die again? "Whisk. Beef. And Whiskerandos quits this bustling scene -nity-he would have added," Puff. No, sir-that's not it-once more, if you please. Whisk. I wish, sir, you would practise this without me-I can't stay dying here all night. Puff. Very well; we'll go over it by-and-by.-[Exit WHISKERANDOS.] I must humour these gentlemen! Puff. Dear sir, you needn't speak that speech, as the body has walked off. Gov. Beef. That's true, sir-then I'll join the fleet. Puff. If you please.-[Exit BEEFEATER.] Now, who comes on? "Enter GOVERNOR, with his hair properly disordered. A hemisphere of evil planets reign! And every planet sheds contagious frenzy! [A loud flourish of trumpets. But hark! I am summoned to the fort: Perhaps the fleets have met! amazing crisis! O Tilburina! from thy aged father's beard Thou'st pluck'd the few brown hairs which time had left! [Exit." Sneer. Poor gentleman! Puff. Yes and no one to blame but his daughter! Dang. And the planets Puff. True.-Now enter Tilburina! Sneer. Egad, the business comes on quick here. Puff. Yes, sir-now she comes in stark mad in white satin. Sneer. Why in white satin? Puff. O Lord, sir—when a heroine goes mad, she always goes into white satin. Don't she, Dangle? Dang. Always—it's a rule. Puff. Yes-here it is-[Looking at the book.] "Enter Tilburina stark mad in white satin, and her confidant stark mad in white linen." "Enter TILBURINA and CONFIDANT, mad, according to custom." Sneer. But, what the deuce! is the confidant to be mad too? Puff. To be sure she is: the confidant is always to do whatever her mistress does; weep when she weeps, smile when she smiles, go mad when she goes mad. Now, Madam Confidant-but keep your madness in the background, if you please. "Tilb. The wind whistles-the moon rises-see, Ah me! he's nowhere! [Exit." Puff. There, do you ever desire to see anybody madder than that? Sneer. Never, while I live! Puff. You observed how she mangled the metre? Dang. Yes,-egad, it was the first thing made me suspect she was out of her senses! Sneer. And pray what becomes of her? Puff. She is gone to throw herself into the sea, to be sure--and that brings us at once to the scene of action, and so to my catastrophemy sea-fight, I mean. Sneer. What, you bring that in at last? Puff. Yes, yes-you know my play is called The Spanish Armada; otherwise, egad, I have no occasion for the battle at all.-Now then for my magnificence!-my battle!-my noise!—and my procession!-You are all ready? Und. Promp. [Within.] Yes, sir. Puff. Is the Thames dressed? "Enter THAMES with two ATTENDANTS." Thames. Here I am, sir. Puff. Very well, indeed!-See, gentlemen, there's a river for you! -This is blending a little of the masque with my tragedy-a new fancy, you know-and very useful in my case; for as there must be a procession, I suppose Thames, and all his tributary rivers, to compliment Britannia with a fête in honour of the victory. Sneer. But pray, who are these gentlemen in green with him? Sneer. His banks? Puff. Yes, one crowned with alders, and the other with a villa!you take the allusions?—But hey! what the plague!—you have got both your banks on one side. Here, sir, come round.-Ever while you live, Thames, go between your banks.-[Bell rings.] There, so! now for't! -Stand aside, my dear friends!-Away, Thames! [Exit THAMES between his banks. [Flourish of drums, trumpets, cannon, &c., &c. Scene changes to the sea-the fleets engage-the music plays-"Britons strike home."Spanish fleet destroyed by fire-ships, &c.—English fleet advancesmusic plays, “Rule Britannia.”—The procession of all the English rivers, and their tributaries, with their emblems, &c., begins with Handel's water music, ends with a chorus to the march in Judas Maccabæus. During this scene, PUFF directs and applauds everything—then Puff. Well, pretty well-but not quite perfect. So, ladies and gentlemen, if you please, we'll rehearse this piece again to-morrow. WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1827) PIPING down the valleys wild, And he laughing said to me: "Pipe a song about a Lamb!" So I piped with merry cheer, "Piper, pipe that song again;" So I piped: he wept to hear. "Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; Sing thy songs of happy cheer!" So I sung the same again, While he wept with joy to hear. "Piper, sit thee down and write In a book that all may read." So he vanish'd from my sight; And I pluck'd a hollow reed, And I made a rural pen, And I stain'd the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear. The Lamb LITTLE lamb, who made thee? And what shoulder, and what art, What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tiger! Tiger! burning bright In the forests of the night, Holy Thursday 'TWAS on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, Came children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green; Gray-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters flow. Oh what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town! Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own. The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands. Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among: Beneath them sit the agèd men, wise guardians of the poor. Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door. ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796) John Anderson, my Jo JOHN ANDERSON my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo! John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And monie a cantie day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo! A Red, Red Rose O, MY luve is like a red, red rose, That's sweetly play'd in tune. As fair art thou, my bonie lass, Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And fare thee weel, my only luve, And fare thee weel awhile! And I will come again, my luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile. SAMUEL ROGERS (1763-1855) MINE be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook that turns a mill, The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Around my ivied porch shall spring And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing The village-church among the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze And point with taper spire to Heaven. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1850) Lines Written in Early Spring I HEARD a thousand blended notes, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; The birds around me hopped and played, The budding twigs spread out their fan, |