Like SHAKSPEARE's "wood-notes wild,"
And POPE's "lisped numbers," it becomes a bore
When hackneyed o'er and o'er
By every petty scribe and criticaster.
Yet we must own you master
Of the magnificent and magniloquent.
And modern playwrights might be well content
Were they but dowered with passion, fancy, wit,
Like great ill-fated "KIT."

* * * * *

THE LAST OF THE CANTERBURY TALES.

BEFORE THE UNVEILING.

_She_. What do you know about MARLOWE?

_He_. Isn't it somewhere near Taplow?

_She_. I think not, because Mr. IRVING went to unveil MARLOWE, and I
don't think he is a rowing-man.

_He_. But he may be doing it for Sir MORELL MACKENZIE, who has a place
at Wargrave.

_She_. Yes, but then the papers would have said something about
it--wouldn't they?

_He_. Very likely; they would say anything in the silly season.