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 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;