Mr. Wigan. Have you so good a purpose, then, in hand?
Burlesque. Else wherefore breathe I in dramatic land?
Mrs. Wigan. I thought your aim was but to make us laugh.
Burlesque. Those who think so but understand me half.
Did not my thrice-renownèd Thomas Thumb,
That mighty mite, make mouthing Fustian dumb?
Is Tilburina's madness void of matter?
Did great Bombastes strike no nonsense flatter?
When in his words he's not one to the wise,
When his fool's bolt spares folly as it flies,
When in his chaff there's not a grain to seize on,
When in his rhyme there's not a grain of reason,
His slang but slang, no point beyond the pun,
Burlesque may walk, for he will cease to run.
FINIS.
Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.
GREAT SUCCESS.