For it seemed there were few who had thought from the first
That the flood would go on till it came to the worst:
The Cynic sat anxious, with face blanching white,
His tremors betraying the state of his fright;
The wit, who had jabbered his thin airy gibes,
Now turned him to whining in whimpering dribes;
And minus the old-time bravado he wore,
Was the “Oracle” nervously pacing the floor.
They were all much alike as they thought of their fate,
But they counseled each other to stay there and wait.