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My dear sir, I must beg! Control your language.

I know him; I've seen through him years ago;

Bard of the "noble savage," wooden-mouthed,

No door, no bolt, no bridle to his tongue,

A torrent of pure bombast—tied in bundles!

How say'st thou. Son o' the goddess of the Greens?—

You dare speak thus of me, you phrase-collector,

Blind-beggar-bard and scum of rifled rag-bags!

Oh, you shall rue it!

Stop! Stop, Aeschylus;

Strike not thine heart to fire on rancour old.

No; I'll expose this crutch-and-cripple playwright,

And what he's worth for all his insolence.

A lamb, a black lamb, quick, boys! Bring it out

To sacrifice; a hurricane's let loose!

You and your Cretan dancing-solos! You

And the ugly amours that you set to verse!

One moment, please, most noble Aeschylus!

And you, poor wretch, if you have any prudence,