My 'cello is to-broke.

                           Then give it me!
And I or mend it or destroy it shall.

Why, then a harpsichord I'd bring abune
The stage, and play a sombre fugal strain
To wake the sheeted dead, in which the life
Of parents three

                           Begone, continuo!
Come, symphony for penny-whistles four

Or octoroons in pianos deep in wine ...

Come, fragment, let's away to love elsewhere

They shun us! Well-a, let us dance apace
We reck them not in sweetish hours of love
When we in random prancing can disport
Our several limbs. Come music, music ho!

Call on the trumpet and the mellow drum!

(off stage) I th'conductor am do be withal, iwis.

(with heavy irony) Quite possibly! But no more talk of that
All those who would comestibles, pray come
And you, sir Trolleyman, shall feed us fat
As doth the neatherd sate his lowing flock

Great lords, unless to Trebizond or Neath
Yould'st go, I'll enervate your eager teeth
I'll treat your noses, titillate your buds
Of buns with plates, of wine with ruby floods
Of chewets rare with scores ... But wherefore flee?

God's Ibex! Surly haunter of this stage,
Fumes unwholesome, curling kites arrive
To scavenge off the curdled blood of those
Who stay.

                This leaves the stage quite clear for me
Ud's teleprinter! What do I espy
Perched high on every branchlet under sky
Catch any round or long inept rescinder,
Jesticulate or bundle out the winder
Defenestrate! Reverberate in Poland
Destroy the hill to reinforce the lowland!