But folks to live on love have ceased; Our hearts when we'd bestow, Some hundreds sterling, at the least, Should with the fond hearts go. When, again, Actæon asks Endymion whether he ever shoots, he replies, "No, I don't care about it":-- _Actæ._ Not care for shooting, man? What's life without it? All nature shoots. Say, what's the earliest thing Boys learn at school? Why, shooting in the ring. The seed you sow must shoot before it grows; We feel the very corns shoot on our toes. We shoot our bolts, our game, our foes--what not? We're told where even rubbish may be shot. The stars shoot in the sky--nay, I've heard say, Folks sometimes shoot the moon on quarter-day. Among the _personæ_ in the piece is Pan, whom we find addressing the fauns in this punning style:-- Oh long-ear'd, but short-sighted fauns, desist; To the great Pan, ye little pitchers, list; Pan knows a thing or two. In point of fact, He's a deep Pan--and anything but cracked. A perfect oracle Pan deems himself; he Is earthenwarish--so, of course, is _delfy_. Trust, then, to Pan your troubles to remove; A warming-Pan he'll to your courage prove. A prophet, he foresees the ills you'd fear; So for them all you have your _Pan-a-seer_. In "Pygmalion"[13] we are asked to suppose that Venus is indignant with the sculptor for his lack of susceptibility to female charms. Cupid therefore undertakes to punish him by making him fall in love with his new statue, Galatea. To this statue Venus, at Pygmalion's request, gives life; but she withholds the power of loving. Galatea, therefore, is for ever slighting the sculptor's affection. Here is the opening of their first interview, which the curious may compare with the similar situation in Mr. Gilbert's "Pygmalion and Galatea:"-- [13] Miss Raynham was the hero; Mr. David James, his apprentice Cambyses; Mr. Thomas Thorne, the Princess Mandane; Miss Ada Swanborough, Venus; Miss Elsie Holt, Cupid; and Miss Eliza Johnstone, Mopsa. _Pygmal._ My beautiful--my own! (_embracing her_). _Statue._ Oh! don't, sir, please; I'm sure I'm much too soft to stand a squeeze. _Pygmal._ Too soft! What mean you? _Statue._ Nay, I hardly know. I was so firm and hard an hour ago; Suddenly I grew soft---- _Pygmal._ Nay, speak no farder. You're getting softer but renews my (h)_ardour_; Unrivalled maid! _Statue._ You rivals talk about, Who've done your best yourself to cut me out; With chisel--mallet--sir, 'tis my conviction, Your mallet ought to have my _mallet_-diction. _Pygmal._ Your sculptor, _amorous_, implores you madly. _Statue._ Yes! sculptors (h)_ammer-us_ poor statues sadly; Yet I ne'er felt it till an hour ago; I _stood, heigho!_ there in your _stud-i-o_, Within a niche!