Byron. Presumptuous meddler, I am a poet.
Away with dross, with sordid gold,
I would not be a miser old;
But with my pen, my rapid pen,
I’m sure I’ll charm the hearts of men!
Han. Haf you been drinking vhisky, my friendt?
Lena. Don’t make fun of him, Hannis; dot vos peyewtiful poetry.
Han. I know von man dot would gif a thousand dollars to hear dot.
Lena. You do?