Timour The Tartar! Or, The Iron Master of Samarkand-By-Oxus An Extravaganza |
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Scene Fourth.
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 | Timour The Tartar! Or, The Iron Master of Samarkand-By-Oxus |  |
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Scene Fourth.
—The Castle Battlements.Enter Kerim and Sanballat, L. 1 E. they express indignation at the wrong done them by Timour, and joining hands, vow eternal vengeance against him. At this moment, Timour suddenly enters, L. 1 E., and they both bow with every sign of profound veneration, they then step aside to opposite sides of the stage, looking mysterious.
Timour.
Eh! What's all this? My eye most plainly traces
Meaning, at last, in those unmeaning faces.
Speak! speak! No, I forget, that's not your line;
Express your thoughts by your least puzzling sign.
(they both approach him rapidly, and begin talking on their fingers with the greatest rapidity)
AGYW.
(pushes them both aside)
Enough! enough!
I can't endure that stupid, soporific stuff.
What are you driving at? (Sanballat beckons him aside, L.)
Well, fire away!
(Sanballat pulls out scroll inscribed, “Zorilda”)
Zorilda! Eh! What? Oh, you mean to say
That she came hither in another's stead;
That news is old, my friend—Queen Anne is dead!
(Sanballat shakes his head)
What! Something else you mean? (Sanballat makes signs that she is in love)
Confound the bother!
Ha! ha! I have it now—she loves another!
(Sanballat nods)
How queer I feel, from head to foot I shake.
Is this the green-eyed monster that doth make
The food it feeds on? (catches Kerim's eye, who beckons him)
Well, my friend, proceed—
(goes up to him—Kerim, R. takes out scroll inscribed “Selima”)
Eh! Selima another loves, indeed!
You think that you've annoyed me, but you've not.
Annoyed forsooth! Not a jot! not a jot!
(walks stealthily up to Sanballat)
But I suppose that other has a name?
(Sanballat points to Kerim)
What! That vile dummy yonder? Oh! Shame! shame! (walks stealthily up to Kerim)
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(Kerim points to Sanballat)
Well, we shall come to something, by-and-bye!
Was ever mortal heart so fiercely racked,
Was ever mortal brain so nearly cracked.
Who dotes yet doubts, suspects but fondly loves,
Is a poor wretch, as Shakespeare amply proves.
But, oh, that foolish nigger never knew
The agonies of him who dotes on two.
Draw near, a word or two before you go,—
If e'er the world of this affair should know,
Speak of me as I am—no, don't do that,
It is not flatt'ring to be deemed a flat.
Say I'm not easily jealous, but being wrought,
Am apt to do the thing I didn't ought,
Say too, that like Arabia's trees, my eyes
Drop tears. No, hang the wretched spoon who cries!
Add this besides, to make the tale complete,
Two blackguard boys once met me in the street,
And called me names—which I shan't repeat.
I uttered not a word; I made no fuss,
But struck out right and left, and smote them—thus!
(stabs Kerim and Sanballat with two daggers, which he has gradually drawn—each advances to carry off the other—Timour pushes them both off, Kerim, R., Sanballat, L.
Thus ends this episode. Hence terrors vain—
The rascals fall.—Timour's himself again!
An ass is he who throws away his life,
In useless fidgetting about his wife;
Unknown was all such folly, I believe,
In good old days of Adam and Eve.
(furiously)
The good old days—all bosh! Old days be hung!
I'll sing that song as that song should be sung.
Song.—Timour.—Air, “The good old days of Adam & Eve.”
I sing, I sing a song much bolder,
Of days in which the world's grown older,
Nor Oxford don nor Cambridge sizar
Can prove to me that we've not grown wiser.
In Latin words and English fact, I
Am not a Laudator temporis acti;
Or to make the thing more plain and pleasant,
There never were times so good as the present.
Sing hey, sing ho, and by no means grieve,
For what's called the days of Adam and Eve.
Of days in which the world's grown older,
Nor Oxford don nor Cambridge sizar
Can prove to me that we've not grown wiser.
In Latin words and English fact, I
Am not a Laudator temporis acti;
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There never were times so good as the present.
Sing hey, sing ho, and by no means grieve,
For what's called the days of Adam and Eve.
Our father's toilettes knew no sponges,
Tubs, nor flesh brush, shower baths—plunges:
They neither knew nor cared a farden
For the glorious rub of the glove of Baden.
They just dabbed water their hands and face on,
In fact, they bathed in a wash-hand basin.
Now we've found out the value of water,
At least, we're told it once a quarter.
Sing hey, sing ho, &c.
Tubs, nor flesh brush, shower baths—plunges:
They neither knew nor cared a farden
For the glorious rub of the glove of Baden.
They just dabbed water their hands and face on,
In fact, they bathed in a wash-hand basin.
Now we've found out the value of water,
At least, we're told it once a quarter.
Sing hey, sing ho, &c.
They smeared their hair with a mixture doughey,
Or wore big wigs that were grand and showy.
A healthier fashion has come to save us
From other wigs than nature gave us.
(Except when a party is dressed out smarter
For playing a piece, like “Timour the Tartar”—
And then, of course, he superbly dresses,
And all admire his elegant tresses).
Sing hey, sing ho, &c.
Or wore big wigs that were grand and showy.
A healthier fashion has come to save us
From other wigs than nature gave us.
(Except when a party is dressed out smarter
For playing a piece, like “Timour the Tartar”—
And then, of course, he superbly dresses,
And all admire his elegant tresses).
Sing hey, sing ho, &c.
| Timour The Tartar! Or, The Iron Master of Samarkand-By-Oxus | |