_King._ Last night, when undisturb'd by state affairs, Moist'ning our clay, and puffing off our cares, Oft the replenish'd goblet did we drain, And drank and smok'd, and smok'd and drank again! Such was the case, our very actions such, Until at length we got a drop too much. _Fusbos._ So when some donkey on the Blackheath road, Falls, overpower'd, beneath his sandy load, The driver's curse unheeded swells the air, Since none can carry more than they can bear. By-and-by the King confides to Fusbos that his heart is not wholly faithful to Queen Griskinissa--that he is also hopelessly in love with Distaffina, the acknowledged sweetheart of Bombastes. Under the circumstances he asks for Fusbos' advice:-- Shall I my Griskinissa's charms forego, Compel her to give up the regal chair, And place the rosy Distaffina there? In such a case, what course can I pursue? I love my queen, and Distaffina too. _Fusbos._ And would a king his general supplant? I can't advise, upon my soul I can't. _King._ So when two feasts, whereat there's nought to pay, Fall unpropitious on the self-same day, The anxious Cit each invitation views, And ponders which to take and which refuse: From this or that to keep away is loth, And sighs to think he cannot dine at both. These, however, are not the best known of the mock similes in "Bombastes." For those we have to look to the scene in which the King, observing his General's abovementioned challenge, reviles Bombastes and knocks down his boots. Then we have the familiar lines:-- _Bomb._ 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. Next comes the fight between the monarch and the warrior; the King is killed, and then Fusbos kills Bombastes. Finally, the two deceased (despite the assertion of Fusbos that they are "dead as herrings--herrings that are red") come to life again, and all ends happily. Of ordinary parody there is little in the piece, and what there is can scarcely be said to be of the best. There is a suggestion, in one ditty, of "Hope told a flattering Tale." But better than this is the song suggested by "My Lodging is on the Cold Ground," which is happy both intrinsically and as an imitation. Fusbos is the singer:-- 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.