That makes these foreigners of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and spurs of the Cirque
Franconi’s stud within Old Drury’s walls,
The jokes of foreign clowns, and all they say,
Their insolence in coming, which, in turn,
These fresh arrivals do but imitate,
When he himself might a quietus make
With a mere cat-call? Who would quietly sit,
And nothing understand of ten long acts,
But that the dread of something after quod—