Sweet "Swan," thy music runneth in my head to-day. Better than the buzzings of the political Bumble-B's, the bray of Bart——but no matter! 'Tis a season when, in sugary summer mood, one wishes soft slumbers even to the blaring Bottoms of the hour. "Blessed be the man who invented sleep!" Right, good Sancho!
"Oh sleep! it is a blessed thing,
Beloved from pole to pole!"
True, oh Ancient Mariner! Come, lord of stretched ease and night-capped noddles. (Drowses.)
Enter certain ebony Minstrels, of sham Ethiopian sort, on raucous row—miscalled popular music—eagerly intent.
First Minstrel (softly). Hist! He's here!
Second M. (pianissimo). See He slumbers!!
Third M. (sotto voce). Now have we Him at vantage!!!
Toby (fortissimo). Yap! Yap! Yap!
Sleepy Sage (drowsily). Down, Dog of dogs, down, Sir!