(Enter three Poets, all handsome. One hath redundant hair, a second redundant beard, a third redundant brow. They present a letter of introduction from an eminent London publisher, stating that they are candidates for the important post of Poet Laureate to the New Municipality which the Birds are about to create.) PEISTHETAIRUS. Gentlemen: Happy to see you in the Realms of Air As yet the worthy Mayor and Aldermen And Councillors of the Town have not decided Whether they want a Poet Laureate. But, if ’twill ease your minds to sing a little, I’ll try and listen. As my memory Fails me entirely in regard to names, Let me without the least discourtesy Name you by your appearance. Amorous Naso Was named from his chief feature. So I beg To call you HAIR, and BEARD, and BROW. THE THREE POETS. Agreed. EUELPIDES. For this delightful tourney of rhyme I hunger: Who’s to begin, my master? PEISTHETAIRUS. Why, the younger. For the topic――as ’tis tropic Heat at present――perhaps ’twere pleasant If each Paladin His ballad in Put salad in. But there must be no single metre, please That’s not allowed by Dr. Guest, of Caius, BROW. (_Swinburne._) “O cool in the summer is salad, And warm in the winter is love; And a poet shall sing you a ballad Delicious thereon and thereof. A singer am I, if no sinner, My Muse has a marvellous wing, And I willingly worship at dinner The Sirens of Spring. Take endive――like love it is bitter; Take beet――for like love it is red; Crisp leaf of the lettuce shall glitter, And cress from the rivulet’s bed: Anchovies foam-born, like the lady Whose beauty has maddened this bard, And olives, from groves that are shady; And eggs――boil ’em hard.” BEARD. (_Browning._) Waitress, with eyes so marvellous black, And the blackest possible lustrous gay tress, This is the month of the Zodiac When I want a pretty deft-handed waitress. Bring a china-bowl, you merry young soul; Bring anything green, from worsted to celery; Bring pure olive-oil from Italy’s soil―― Then your china-bowl we’ll well array. When the time arrives chip choicest chives, And administer quietly chili and capsicum―― Young girls do not quite know what’s what ’Till as a Poet into their laps I come). Then a lobster fresh as fresh can be (When it screams in the pot I feel a murderer); After which I fancy we Shall want a few bottles of Heidsieck or Roederer. HAIR. (_Tennyson._)