Our Brutuses
Are Plutuses;
Every Orpheus
Is a Morpheus;
Our Jupiter
A Scapin, sir.
Sad times be these;
The nations grin
When Hercules
Doth sit and spin.
Some climb, some crawl,
Urged by the devil,
And make it all
A witches' revel.
Gramadoch.Thy ballad's execrable, and the rhyme
Impedes the sense.
Elespuru. 'Tis my turn now.
[He sings.
You at whom in night's dark spaces
All hell's demons make grimaces,
Priests of Angus and Errol;
You who know the witches' jargon,
You who have, the Styx' dark marge on,
No nightingale except the owl;
Undines who, in your cascades,
Do without a parasol;
Sylphs, whose merry cavalcades
Braving hills and barricades
Hasten in two leaps, you jades,
E'en to the steeple of St. Paul;
Huntsmen damned of the Tyrol,
Whose wild hounds, and undismayed,
Ceaseless roam through forest glade;
