[_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 You soon shall have it--There! [_They fight._ _King._ Where? _Bombas._ There and there! _King._ I have it sure enough--Oh! I am slain! I'd give a pot of beer to live again [_falls on his back_]; Yet ere I die I something have to say: My once-lov'd gen'ral, pri'thee come this way! Oh! oh! my Bom---- [_Dies._ _Bombas._ --Bastes he would have said; 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." [_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_. _Bombas._ Oh, Fusbos, Fusbos! I am diddled quite, Dark clouds come o'er my eyes--farewell, good night! Good night! my mighty soul's inclined to roam, So make my compliments to all at home. [_Lies down by the_ KING.