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And in an hour shall we, bound hand and foot,
Art. Not so, not so.
Bosch. What matter by what rule thou mayst have governed ?
Art. It may be
Bosch. Then thou art mad,
Art. (R.) Hold, Van den Bosch ! I say this shall not be.
Bosch. This comes of lifting dreamers into power !
Art. Why, know I not it does ?
Bosch, Thou wilt?
* Pronounce Broozh. Pronounce Bosch, Bosk.
THE SIEGE OF GHENT.
Is this that I have brought upon the board !
Art. Unto His sovereignty who truly made me
Let that suffice
Bosch. Tush, tush ! Van Artevelde ; thou talk'st and talk'st, And honest burghers think it wondrous fine ; But thou mightst easi’lier, with that tongue of thine, Persuade
yon smoke to fly i' the face o' the wind,
Art. I know, sir, no man better, where my talk
Art. Thy life again!
Look round, and answer what thy life can be
Bosch. I'd like to see thee do it.
Art. I know thou wouldst.
- SYLVESTER DAGGERWOOD.
FUSTIAN and DAGGERWOOD discovered ; FUSTIAN sitting in one chair, DAG
GERWOOD asleep in another. The clock strikes eleven.
Fustian. Eight, nine, ten, eleven? Zounds! eleven o'clock, and here I have been waiting ever since nine for an interview with the manager:
(A servant crosses.) Hark ye, young man, is your master visible yet ?
Servant. Sir ?
Fus. Ay, the old answer ! Who is this asleep here in the chair?
Serv. O, that, sir, is a gentleman who wants to come out.
Fus. Come out! then wake him, and open the door. Upon my word, the greatest difficulty in this house is to get in.
Serv. Ha, ha! I mean he wants to appear on the stage, sir : 't is Mr. Sylvester Daggerwood, of the Dunstable company.
Fus. O ho! a country candidate for a London truncheonsucking Prince of Denmark. He snores like a tinker : fatigued with his journey, I suppose.
Serv. No, sir. He has taken a nap in this room for these five morning but has not been able to obtain an audience here yet.
Fus. No hor at Dunstable, neither, I take it.
; you 'll let
Serv. I am so loth to disturb him, poor gentleman, that I never wake him till a full half-hour after my master is gone out.
Fus. Upon my honor, that's very obliging! I must keep watch here, I find, like a lynx. Well, friend your master know Mr. Fustian is here, when the two gentlemen have left him at leisure. Serv. The moment they make their exit.
(Exit.) Fus. Make their exit! This fellow must have lived here come time, by his language, and I'll warrant him lies by rote, like a parrot. (Sits down and pulls out a manuscript.) If I could nail this manager for a minute, I'd read him such a tragedy!
Daggerwood. (Dreaming.) Nay, and thou 'lt mouth - I'll rant as well as thou.
Fus. Eh ! he's talking in his sleep! Acting Hamlet before twelve tallow candles in the country.
Dag. “ To be, or not to be" Fus. Yes, he's at it: let me see. (Turning over the leaves of his play.) I think there's no doubt of its running.
Dag. Dreaming.) “That's the question” ...“who would fardels bear"
Fus. Zounds! There's no bearing you ! - His grace's patronage will fill half the boxes, and I'll warrant we'll stuff the critics in the pit. Dag. (Dreaming.) “ To groan and sweat,
When he himself might his quietus make." Fus. Quietus! I wish, with all my heart, I could make yours.
-The Countess of Crambo insists on the best places for the first night of performance : she 'll sit in the stage-box.
Dag. (Still dreaming.) “With a bare bodkin!”
you intend to sleep any more ?
Dag. (Waking.) Eh! what? when ? Methought I heard a voice say, “Sleep no more!"
Fus. Faith, sir, you have heard something very like it; that voice was mine. (They rise.)
Dag. Sir, I am your servant to command, Sylvester Daggerwood, whose benefit is fixed for the eleventh of June, by particular desire of several persons of distinction. You'd make an excellent Macbeth, sir.
Dag. Macbeth doth murder sleep, the innocent sleep, balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course – nay, and sometimes her first course, too — when a dinner is unavoidably deferred, by your humble servant, Sylvester Daggerwood.
Fus. I am very sorry, sir, you should ever have occasion to postpone so pleasant a performance.
Dag. Eating, sir, is a most popular entertainment, for man and horse, as I may say; but I am apt to appear nice, sir; and, somehow or other, I never could manage to sit down to dinner in
Fus. Has your company been bad, then, of late, sir ? Dag. Very bad, indeed, sir — the Dunstable company, where I have eight shillings a week, four bits of candle, one wife, three shirts, and nine children.
Fus. A very numerous family.
Dag. A crowded house, to be sure, sir, but not very profitable. Mrs. Daggerwood, a fine figure, but, unfortunately, stutters, so of no use in the theatrical line; children too young to make a debut, except my eldest, Master Apollo Daggerwood, a youth only eight years old, who has twice made his appearance in Tom Thumb, to an overflowing and brilliant barn house, I mean with unbounded applause.
Fus. Have you been long on the stage, Mr. Daggerwood ?
Dag. Fifteen years since I first smelt the lamp, sir; my father was an eminent button-maker, at Birmingham, and meant me to marry Miss Molly Mop, daughter to the rich director of coal works at Wolverhampton ; but I had a soul above buttons, and abhorred the idea of a mercenary marriage. I panted for a liberal profession, so ran away from my father, and engaged with a traveling company of comedians. In my travels I had soon the happiness of forming a romantic attachment with the present Mrs. Daggerwood, wife to Sylvester Daggerwood, your humble servant to command, whose benefit is fixed for the eleventh of June, by desire of several persons of distinction; so you see, sir, I have a taste,
Fus. Have you ? Then sit down and I'll read you my tragedy. I’m determined some one shall hear it before I go out of this house. (Sits down.)
Dag. A tragedy! Sir I'll be ready for you in a moment; let me prepare for woe. (Takes out a very ragged pocket-handkerchief.) “ This handkerchief did an Egyptian to my mother give."
Fus. Faith, I should think so; and, to all appearance, one of the Norwood party.
Dag. Now, sir, for your title, and then for the dram'atis perso'næ. (Sits.)
Fus. The title, I think, will strike; the fashion of plays, you