The Brass Bottle: A Farcical Fantastic Play in Four Acts

by F. Anstey

I dwelt in the Palace of the Mountain of the Clouds in the Garden of Irem, above the City of Babel.

Horace.

[To himself.] Why, of course! Sylvia! The Arabian Nights! [To Fakrash.] I can quite account for you now—but go on.

Fakrash.

For a certain offence that I committed, the wrath of Suleymán, the son of Dáood—on whom be peace!—[he salaams]—was heavy against me, and he commanded that I should be enclosed within a bottle of brass, and thrown into the Sea of El-Karkar, there to abide the Day of Doom.

Horace.

Don't think I'm believing in you. [Walking round the front of the bottle, as if to test Fakrash by touching him.] I've sense enough to know you're not real!

[He withdraws his hand without venturing upon the experiment.

Fakrash.

Stroke thy head and recover thy faculties! I am real, even as thou art.