_Ponsch_ (_to Ghost_). Have you any hearse-plumes at hand? Do not be angry with me. Can you hear my teeth? I am only a poor little old man. Will you please undo my necktie? (_cf. "King Lear"_). Let us go to breakfast. Will there be muffins for breakfast? [_Exit, leaning heavily on Ghost's arm._ _The Dutch Dolls_ (_with conviction_). One more such night as this, and all our heads would have gone bald! SAMPLE No. III.--_The Courtyard with a scaffold and gibbet. A blood-red moon is sailing amid the currant-bushes, and a shower of stars proceeds uninterruptedly. PONSCH discovered looking through the fatal noose._ _Djakketch_ (_the Court Executioner_). Can you see anything through the loop? _Ponsch_. Not yet. I cannot see the audience anywhere. _Djak._ No; we are probably above the heads of the audience. But can't you distinguish Mr. WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE? _Ponsch_. Wait one moment. No, I cannot see Mr. SHAKSPEARE anywhere. _Djak._ Because he has had to take a back seat. Look again. Can you see nothing? _Ponsch_. I can make out an omnibus in the street. It is green. _Djak._ Ay, ay! A Bayswater 'bus. They _are_ green. But don't you see any of the general public? _Ponsch_. I can see Mr. WILLIAM ARCHER, and some new Critics, and unconventional Dramatists. They are following the text with books of the Play. But there are no more errand-boys with baskets. _Djak._ This is wonderful. No more errand-boys with baskets? _Ponsch_. No more small children with babies! _Djak._ No more small children? Do pray let _me_ look. (_PONSCH retires, and DJAKKETCH puts his head through the loop._) Oh, I can see plainly now. There is not a single spectator left. They have all been bored to death! _Ponsch_. All bored to death? Now then, lift your head a little, and I will fondle you. [_Pulls the cord towards himself._ _Djak._ Oh, what have you put round my neck? Oh me! You are going to ... oh, you _are_! _Ponsch_. Oh, I _am_! _Djak._ Then--oh! _Ponsch_. Oh! [_Exeunt all, except DJAKKETCH, who ceases kicking gradually. A peacock is heard warbling in a cemetery round the corner; a barn-door fowl jumps on a wheelbarrow, and crows._ FINIS. * * * * * HORACE IN LONDON. TO A CRUSTED OLD PORT. (_AD AMPHORAM_.) [Illustration] Old liquor born on my birthday, a twin to me, Whether ordained wit and mirth to put into me, Or passions that witch and defy us, Or, peradventure, the sleep of the pious. Vaunt not its shippers, my friend, but produce it--an Actual, "forty-five," languorous Lusitan, Befitting, whate'er be its label, You, my good host, and the guest at your table. Steeped though you frown in this dryasdust clever age, Dare you presume to resist such a beverage? Why, ELDON, that dragon of virtue, Never imagined its vintage could hurt you.