see plainly now. There is not a single spectator left. They have all
been bored to death!

_Ponsch_. All bored to death? Now then, lift your head a little, and I
will fondle you. [_Pulls the cord towards himself._

_Djak._ Oh, what have you put round my neck? Oh me! You are going to
... oh, you _are_!

_Ponsch_. Oh, I _am_!

_Djak._ Then--oh!

_Ponsch_. Oh!

[_Exeunt all, except DJAKKETCH, who ceases kicking
gradually. A peacock is heard warbling in a cemetery round the
corner; a barn-door fowl jumps on a wheelbarrow, and crows._

FINIS.

* * * * *

HORACE IN LONDON.

TO A CRUSTED OLD PORT. (_AD AMPHORAM_.)

[Illustration]

Old liquor born on my birthday, a twin to me,