Clôture, or no _Clôture_? That is the question:―― Whether ’tis better, on the whole, to suffer The waste and worry of malign obstruction, Or to take arms against the plague of spouters, And, by mouth-closing, foil them. To rise――to vote―― No more; and, by a vote, to find we end The boredom and the thousand Warton “blocks” The Session’s heir to. ’Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To rise――to vote―― To vote! Perchance to gag. Ay, there’s the rub; For from that Vote what tyranny may come, When we have wriggled from Obstruction’s coil Must give us pause. There’s the consideration That makes endurance of so long a life. For who would bear the quips and quirks of BARTLETT, Tart BIGGAR’S tongue, O’DONNELL’S contumely, The gibes of gadfly GORST, WARTON’S delay, The cheek of callow CHURCHILL, and the spurns That patient FORSTER of rude HEALY takes, When he to them might their quietus give With a bare majority? Who’d night sittings bear, To yawn and faint for twenty weary hours, But that the fear of after-hurt to freedom―― That glory of our country, whose wide bourn No Liberal would limit, clogs the will, And makes us rather bear the ills we have, Than fly to others that we may not measure. Thus caution does make cowards of us all; And thus the Statesman’s native resolution, Is hampered by the cobweb coils of doubt, And politicians of great pith and prowess, From this reform their faces turn aside, Dreading the name of――_Clôture_. _Punch_, February 4, 1882. ――――:o:―――― To come! or not to come? That’s the question! Whether it is better to take French leave, Or to obey the calls of an outrageous audience, And by appearing end them? To come! to speak! no more; And by that speech to say, I thank ye for this crowded house. This is a consummation devoutly to be wished. To come! to speak! to speak, perchance to stick; Aye, there’s the rub, for after this final speech, I wish those dreams may come, When I have shuffled off this mimic toil, That tell me I have merited your applause. There’s the respect that makes the memory Of your favours of so long life; For who would strut, and rehearse long parts, To groan and sweat under some worrying manager, But that the dread of a bad benefit, An empty theatre, from whose pit and boxes No profits are returned――puzzles the pocket, And makes us rather keep those shin-plasters we have, Than fly to dollars that we know not of; Thus interest does make converts of us all, And thus my resolution to leave New York Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought; And though my speech is not quite pithy at this moment, As on the East River’s current I do turn away, Your kindness I’ll remember, till I lose the name of Finn. HENRY J. FINN. ――――:o:――――