Governor, Governor, editor man, Rusty, musty, spick-and-span, Harlequin, harridan, dicky-dout, Demagogue, charlatan--o, u, t, OUT! (_De Young falls and sleeps._) Antimonopoler, diplomat, Railroad lackey, political rat, One, two, three--SCAT! (_Swift falls and sleeps._) Boycotting chin-worker, working to woo Fortune, the fickle, to smile upon _you_, Jo-coated acrobat, shuttle-cock--SHOO! (_Estee falls and sleeps._) Now they lie in slumber sweet, Now the charm is all complete, Hasten I with flying feet Where beyond the further sea A babe upon its mother's knee Is gazing into skies afar And crying for a golden star. I'll drag a cloud across the blue And break that infant's heart in two! (_Exeunt the Spirit of Broken Hopes and the Red and Blue Fires. Re-enter Moon._) ESTEE (_waking_): Why, this is strange! I dreamed I know not what, It seemed that certain apparitions were, Which sang uncanny words, significant And yet ambiguous--half-understood-- Portending evil; and an awful spook, Even as I stood with my accomplices, Counted me out, as children do in play. Is that you, Mike? DE YOUNG _(waking):_ It was. SWIFT _(waking):_ Am I all that? Then I'll reform my ways. _(Reforms his ways.)_ Ah! had I known How sweet it is to be an honest man I never would have stooped to turn my coat For public favor, as chameleons take The hue (as near as they can judge) of that Supporting them. Henceforth I'll buy With money all the offices I need, And know the pleasure of an honest life, Or stay forever in this dismal place. Now that I'm good, it will no longer do To make a third with such, a wicked two. _(Returns to his tomb.)_ DE YOUNG: Prophetic dream! by some good angel sent To make me with a quiet life content. The question shall no more my bosom irk, To go to Washington or go to work. From Fame's debasing struggle I'll withdraw, And taking up the pen lay down the law. I'll leave this rogue, lest my example make An honest man of him--his heart would break. _(Exit De Young.)_ ESTEE: Out of my company these converts flee, But that advantage is denied to me: My curst identity's confining skin Nor lets me out nor tolerates me in. Well, since my hopes eternally have fled, And, dead before, I'm more than ever dead, To find a grander tomb be now my task, And pack my pork into a stolen cask. _(Exit, searching. Loud calls for the Author, who appears, bowing and smiling_.) AUTHOR _(singing):_ Jack Satan's the greatest of gods, And Hell is the best of abodes. 'Tis reached, through the Valley of Clods, By seventy different roads. Hurrah for the Seventy Roads! Hurrah for the clods that resound With a hollow, thundering sound! Hurrah for the Best of Abodes!