_Ag._ Yes, for "Prime Wallsend"--what could you expect?

_Cly._ Listen! In passing 'long the public way
I saw a notice telling of these coals.
It called them "ever-burning": said no skill
Could put them out when once they were alight,
Because they were "the best the world produced."
I purchased some. Ai! ai! They turned out slates.
My household maidens by Prometheus swear
_They_ never saw such stuff for lighting fires.
What of it is not slag, that part is slate,
And slated should they be that sold it me.
Moreover, when with anger I remarked
To those who bore the sacks upon their backs,
Within our cellars to deposit them,
That they had better bear their loads away
Seeing I ordered coals, not lumps of slate,
They answered that, if they refused to burn,
They might be useful for a Rockery!
So now _they_ have the shillings, _I_ the coals.

_Ag._ And having them, we have no household fires.

_Cly._ What then to do? _You_ sit with idle hands.

_Ag._ I cannot turn to Wallsend bits of slag.

_Cly._ But you can seek the Archon, and denounce
The man whose cunning robs our hearth of flame.