I’d let a thing like that, a tricked-out scheme,
A muddy smear, a smudge of chalk and cheese,
A daub, a patch, a paint-scab, a disease,
A niggled lie, a forger’s fraud,—go hence
Out of my studio to breed pestilence?
No! I will not! ’Tis treason if I spare!
Let go, let go! That finishes it!—
So there!
[He tears the drawing into fragments and throws them down. Tikipu screams with anguish, and falls face-forward, clutching the torn pieces.
Get up, you blubbering booby! don’t lie there