Distaf. You hardly know? A very pretty joke,

If kingly promises so soon are broke!

Aren't I to be a queen, and dress so fine?

King. I do repent me of the foul design.

To thee, my brave Bombastes, I restore
Pure Distaffina, and will never more

Through lane or street with lawless passion rove,

But give to Griskinissa all my love.

Bombas. No, no, I'll love no more. Let him who can,

Fancy the maid who fancies ev'ry man.

In some lone place I'll find a gloomy cave;

There my own hands shall dig a spacious grave.

Then all unseen I'll lay me down and die,

Since woman's constancy is—all my eye.

TRIO "Oh, Lady Fair!"

Distaf. Oh, cruel man! where are you going?
Sad are my wants, my rent is owing.

Bombas. I go, I go, all comfort scorning;

Some death I'll die before the morning.

Distaf. Heigho, heigho! sad is that warning;
Oh, do not die before the morning!

King. I'll follow him, all danger scorning;
He shall not die before the morning.
Bombas. I go, I go, etc.

Distaf. Heigho, heigho, etc.

(They hold him by the coat-tails, but he gradually tugs

them off.).

SCENE IV. A Wood.

Enter FUSBOS.

Fusbos. This day is big with fate. Just as I set

My foot across the threshold, lo! I met

A man whose squint terrific struck my view.
Another came, and, lo! he squinted too.

And ere I reach'd the corner of the street,
Some ten short paces, 'twas my lot to meet
A third who squinted more. A fourth, and he
Squinted more vilely than the other three.
Such omens met the eye when Cæsar fell,
But cautioned him in vain; and who can tell
Whether those awful notices of fate

Are meant for kings or ministers of state;
For rich or poor, old, young, or short or tall,
The wrestler Love trips up the heels of all.

SONG "My Lodging is on the Cold Ground."

My lodging is in Leather Lane,

A parlour that's next to the sky;
'Tis exposed to the wind and the rain,
But the wind and the rain I defy.
Such love warms the coldest of spots,
As I feel for Scrubinda the fair;
Oh, she lives by the scouring of pots,
In Dyot Street, Bloomsbury Square.

Oh, were I a quart, pint, or gill,

To be scrubb'd by her delicate hands,
Let others possess what they will
Of learning, and houses, and lands;

My parlour that's next to the sky

I'd quit, her blest mansion to share;
So happy to live and to die

In Doyt Street, Bloomsbury Square.

And oh, would this damsel be mine,
No other provision I'd seek;
On a look I could breakfast and dine,
And feast on a smile for a week.

But, ah! should she false-hearted prove,
Suspended, I'll dangle in air,

A victim to delicate love,

In Doyt Street, Bloomsbury Square.

(Exit.)

Enter BOMBASTES, preceded by a FIFER playing "Michael

Wiggins."

Bombas. Gentle musician, let thy dulcet strain Proceed. Play "Michael Wiggins" once again.

(He does so.)

(Exit FIFER.)

Music's the food of love; give o'er, give o'er,
For I must batten on that food no more.
My happiness is chang'd to doleful dumps,
Whilst, merry Michael, all thy cards were trumps.
So, should some youth by fortune's blest decrees,

Possess at least a pound of Cheshire cheese,
And bent some favour'd party to regale,

Lay in a kilderkin, or so, of ale;

Lo, angry fate! In one unlucky hour

Some hungry rats may all the cheese devour,
And the loud thunder turn the liquor sour.

(Forms his sash into a noose.)

Alas! Alack! Alack! And well-a-day,

That ever man should make himself away!

That ever man for woman false should die,

As many have, and so, and so (prepares to hang himself; tries the sensation, but disapproves of the result) won't I! No, I'll go mad! 'gainst all I'll vent my rage,

And with this wicked wanton world a woeful war I'll wage! (Hangs his boots to the arm of a tree, and, taking a scrap of paper, with a pencil writes the following couplet, which he attaches to them, repeating the words):

"Who dares this pair of boots displace,

Must meet Bombastes face to face."

Thus do I challenge all the human race!

(Draws his sword, and retires up the stage, and off.)

Enter the KING.

King. Scorning my proffer'd hand, he frowning fled, Curs'd the fair maid, and shook his angry head.

(Perceives the boots and label.),

"Who dares this pair of boots displace,
Must meet Bombastes face to face."
Ha! dost thou dare me, vile, obnoxious elf?
I'll make thy threats as bootless as thyself.
Where'er thou art, with speed prepare to go
Where I shall send thee-to the shades below.

(Knocks down the boots.)

Bombas. (coming forward). So have I heard, on Afric's

burning shore,

A hungry lion give a grievous roar;

The grievous roar echo'd along the shore.

King. So have I heard on Afric's burning shore

Another lion give a grievous roar,

And the first lion thought the last a bore.

Bombas. Am I then mocked? Now, by my fame, I swear

King. I have it, sure enough! Oh, I am slain!

I'd give a pot of beer to live again.
Yet ere I die I something have to say:

(Falls on his back.)

My once-lov'd gen'ral, pri'thee come this way!
Oh! oh! my Bom-

Bombas.

But, ere the word was out, his breath was fled.
Well, peace be with him; his untimely doom
Shall thus be mark'd upon his costly tomb:
"Fate cropt him short; for be it understood,
He would have liv'd much longer-if he could."

(Dies.)

-Bastes he would have said,

(Retires again up the stage.)

Enter FUSBOS.

Fusbos. This was the way they came, and much I fear

There's mischief in the wind. What have we here?

King Artaxominous bereft of life!

Here'll be a pretty tale to tell his wife.

Bombas. A pretty tale, but not for thee to tell,

For thou shalt quickly follow him to hell;

There say

I sent thee, and I hope he's well.

Fusbos. No, thou thyself shalt thy own message bear; Short is the journey, thou wilt soon be there.

(They fight; BOMBASTES is wounded.)