Seven's a dozen and never is then,
Whether is what and what is when,
A man is a tree and a cuckoo a cow
For gold galore and silver enow
To magical, mystical hoodoos!
SARALTHIA:
What monstrous shadow darkens all the place,
_(Enter Smyler.)_
Flung like a doom athwart--ha!--thou?
Portentous presence, art thou not the same
That stalks with aspect horrible among
Small youths and maidens, baring snaggy teeth,
Champing their tender limbs till crimson spume,
Flung from, thy lips in cursing God and man,
Incarnadines the land?
SMYLER:
Thou dammid slut!
_(Exit Smyler.)_
NELLIBRAC:
O what a pretty man!
SARALTHIA
Now who is next?
Of tramps and casuals this graveyard seems
Prolific to a fault!
_(Enter Needleson, exhaling, prophetically, an odor of decayed
eggs and, actually, one of unlaundried linen. He darts an
intense regard at an adjacent marble angel and places his open
hand behind his ear.)_
NEEDLESON:
Hay?
_(Exit Needleson.)_
NELLIBRAC:
Sweet, sweet male!
I yearn to play at Copenhagen with him!
_(Blushes diligently and energetically.
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