Act III, scene vii
Megalitha and Usquebaugh sit wontedly abune the wharf. The loam is being loaded
The subplot thrives apace; but what of he
Whose only aim was us to circumvent
In sloopless night?
                           Lo, here the vagrant comes –
He of the errant steed, whose only grace
Is subtlety of limb and not the mind –
Ho – Good my lord
                           Why yes, dull thou my maid!
Were you one tenth as beauteous as your peer
The brave Marsala, coined of vanquished bronze
Melted, smithied, cast in Byron's love
As were the sirens of that tranquil sea
Iced with tepid tallow from the candles
Which lit the way to hell ...
                                      Pray listen me!
I have a paper here, fresh publish'd;
(They know not yet: I'll burn it in the glew
Of yonder fire: then should the embers flare
They'll think it were some incandescent dog
As hounds the moor about). I'd see this tome!
When to the butt of barrels' to appraise,
What is't?
                 It wern the 'Rude Commercial Press',
The famous columns, wherewithin to scan
That aught of treachery be now disclosed
'These tomes of crime forgot' ...
                                      I must depart.
Exit Bosun.
T'allay my anger he should not away
Though yet, in pleasing, should he care to stay!

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