As manager of horses Mr. Merryman is, So I with you am master of the ceremonies,-- These grand rejoicings, let me see, how name ye 'em? Oh, in Greek lingo 'tis E--pi--thalamium. October's tenth it is, toss up each hat to-day, And celebrate with shouts our opening Saturday. On this great night 'tis settled by our manager, That we, to please great Johnny Bull, should plan a jeer, Dance a bang-up theatrical cotillon, And put on tuneful Pegasus a pillion; That every soul, whether or not a cough he has, May kick like Harlequin, and sing like Orpheus. So come, ye pupils of Sir John Gallini, Spin up a teetotum like Angiollini; That John and Mrs. Bull from ale and teahouses, May shout huzza for Punch's Apotheosis! [_They dance and sing._ AIR--"_Sure such a day._"--TOM THUMB. _Lear._ Dance, Regan, dance with Cordelia and Goneril, Down the middle, up again, poussette, and cross; Stop Cordelia, do not tread upon her heel, Regan feeds on coltsfoot, and kicks like a horse. See, she twists her mutton fists like Molyneux or Beelzebub, And t'other's clack, who pats her back, is louder far than Hell's hubbub. They tweak my nose, and round it goes, I fear they'll break the ridge of it. Or leave it all just like Vauxhall, with only half the bridge of it. _Omnes._ Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza! _Lady Macbeth._ I kill'd the King, my husband is a heavy dunce, He left the grooms unmassacred, then massacred the stud, One loves long gloves, for mittens, like King's evidence, Let truth with the fingers out, and won't hide blood. _Macbeth._ When spooneys on two knees implore the aid of sorcery. To suit their wicked purposes they quickly put the laws awry, With Adam I in wife may vie, for none could tell the use of her, Except to cheapen golden pippins hawk'd about by Lucifer. _Omnes._ Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza! _Othello._ Wife, come to life, forgive what your black lover did, Spit the feathers from your mouth and munch roast beef; Iago he may go and be toss'd in the coverlid, That smother'd you because you pawn'd my handkerchief. _Geo. Barnwell._ Why, neger, so eager about your rib immaculate? Milwood shows for hanging us they've got an ugly knack o' late; If on beauty stead of duty but one peeper bent he sees, Satan waits with Dolly baits to hook in us apprentices. _Omnes._ Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza! _Hamlet._ I'm Hamlet in camlet, my ap and perihelia, The moon can fix which lunatics makes sharp or flat. I stuck by ill-luck, enamour'd of Ophelia, Old Polony like a sausage, and exclaim'd, "Rat! Rat!"