University of Virginia Library

Scene Sixth.

—A Dark Gallery in the Fortress.
Enter Timour, R.—he falls.
Timour.
Perdition catch thine arm—the chance is thine—
But, oh, the lustre of this precious shine.
Thy wondrous glory doth afflict me more
Than my deep wound—though, that I own's a bore.
Now, let the world no longer be a stage,
Hard driven by a madman's senseless rage;
But let the schoolmaster with supple cane
Come forward, and set all to rights again.
And then—

Enter Zorilda, Oglou, Liska, and Agib, R. and L.
Zoril.
Good gracious!—Are you talking yet!

Timour.
The sun of Timour—

Zoril.
Is but slow to set.
I see that I must deal another blow!

Oglou.
(L. C.)
Remember, please, your promise—No, ma'am—no!

Liska.
(L.)
One is enough, you need not give another;
Please, ma'am, do not hurt my little brother.

Timour.
A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!

Zoril.
Because you'd like to run away.

Timour.
Of course!

Selima enters, L., as Genius of Burlesque.
Agib.
(L.)
But who comes here, array'd in garb grotesque?

All.
Selima!

Selim.
No! the Genius of Burlesque!
Who by the exercise of powers magical,
Would fain prevent the tale from being tragical.
Nay, don't be startled; there is no great change meant,
But listen to the terms of my arrangement.
Agib shall to his father's crown succeed.

Agib.
Of course!

Zoril.
Yes—yes!

Liska.
That's fair!

Oglou.
All right!

Timour.
Agreed!

Selim.
Timour shall live.

Timour.
Agreed! Agreed!

Selim.
Instead
Of being slain, Zorilda he shall wed!

Zoril.
Stop! stop! Two words to that!

Selim.
Two! Nonsense! Stuff!
When you are married you'll have words enough!

Zoril.
Well, then, you'll lead a life like any martyr.

Timour.
By wedding me, you'll find you've caught a Tartar!
In erudition some have gone so far,
When they say “Tartar” they omit the R.
Yes, worthy friends, those daring innovators,
Speaking of Tartars, rudely call them “Tatars!”
The Khan of Tartars thus becomes, poor man!
A vulgar and ignoble Tater-can,
And stands exposed to many a wicked joke,
Whick reckless punsters feel inclin'd to poke.
Then, when they see his anger mounting high,
“Taters all hot!” irrev'rently will cry;
Or ev'ry grand idea basely spoiling,
Will mercilessly say, “The Tater's boiling.”
When I become pugnacious, they will scoff,
Bidding the Tater take his jacket off.
To idle jests like these, pray give no quarter,
Though tart they be, let Timour still be Tartar.
His dreadful wars he promises shall cease,
If you will patronize his Christmas Piece.

LAST GRAND SCENE & FAIRY WEDDING CAKE.

Finale.—Air, “All among the Barley.”