And so he plays his part. The next plague springs
From German deep trombone and wild bassoon,
From flute, from clarionet, and ophecleide,
Teutonic youths, ill-taught, with English airs
Playing strange pranks, who, from the lowest bass
Alike even to the highest treble, yield
Most irritating sounds. Till last of all,
To close the days tormenting history.
The prayer for death, and sweet oblivion
Of sweeps, of bands, of Booth, of everything.