The young Reciter is seldom happy in his delivery of blank verse. To which the unsympathetic may retort, that he does not deserve to be. _Mr. Punch_, however, recommends his pupils to treat such sneers with the contempt they merit, and to study the little dramatic exercise which has just been thrown off by a Blank Verse Bard who is kept on the premises. It can be announced on programmes as VENGEANCE FOREGONE! (_You should have an ordinary wooden elbow-chair and a print wrapper within easy reach. Come on crouching, with an air of tigerish anticipation._) 'Tis he! Can I mistake the clustered curls Upon his hated hyacinthine head? Have they not wiled from me the fickle heart Of perjured BANDOLINA! There, he stands Before my window, where a winsome form, Rotating slow with measured self-display, Has caught his errant eye. Now, demi-siren, [_Hands extended in passionate invocation._ Make languorous those lustrous crystal orbs! Wreathe, waxen arms, and lure him in, to me! So--once again!--he falters--he is Mine! [_Savage exultation, with eyebrows._ Let me be calm. (_Self-restraint, indicated by violent heaving of shirt-front._) Good morning, Sir, to you. I pray you-- (_With a forced sickly smile_) --step within, and seat yourself. I will attend you in a moment. (_Hold open imaginary door; then resume soliloquy in fierce undertone._) ... Trapped! He knows me not. (_With dark suspicion, which is easily conveyed by half closing eyes and pressing knuckle of bent forefinger against lower lip._) Unless I be deceived, No hazard freak of hooded Fortune's urn, [_A nasty line for the "h"-less._ But BANDOLINA'S dainty insolence Decreed this visit ... Ha! my victim calls! I come anon. Sir (_fawningly, with a side-glance of withering hate at your chair._) Patience, peevish worm! Are you in such a hurry, then, to writhe? [_Fierce aside._ (_Here you draw the chair forward, and, placing yourself behind it, speak the following lines with easy fluency, accompanied by such pantomime as may suggest itself to you._) I crave your pardon for my tardiness,-- Allow me to dispose these lendings--thus: [_Here you shake out the wrapper._ This band above the elbows--tighter--so. I do assure you, Sir, this is no gag-- 'Tis but a poor contrivance of mine own To guard the mouth against th' encroaching sud. Refreshing, Sir, indeed, this change of weather! But one more knot.... and now (_here you stride to a position in front of the chair, which you survey with folded arms, and a mocking smile_) --my feigning's done!