“There have been thirty-seven before you, and they
    Are all married and happy now. 
    You see I know all about young men.” 
    “I do not think a young, timid girl
    Should ‘No’ so much,” I answered.  And going out
    (Carefully escorted by the butler, for there was
    A better overcoat than mine in the hall),
    I left her alone and unloved,—­with no one to care for her
    Save a couple of dozen servants
    And a doting father and mother.

A Midsummer Night’s Tempest.

AN EPILOGUE TO HAMLET, PERFORMED BY AMATEURS.

SCENE:  Elsinore—­a platform before the castle (on an improvised stage).  Inky darkness.  Shade of Hamlet (solus).

Shade of Hamlet:  Oh, did you see him, did you see the knave, The spindle-shanked, low-browed, and cock-eyed Clerk to an attorney, play at Hamlet, Dream-souled Hamlet, wearing an eyeglass?  Oh, it was horrible.

    (Enter Shade of Laertes.)

    Shade of Laertes:  What’s the matter with Hamlet?

S. of H.:  He’s not all right.  No, by the fame of Shakespeare, he’s all wrong.  A certain convocation of talented amateurs Are e’en at him.  Your amateur is your only emperor for talent; There’s not a genius in the universe Who will essay as much.

S. of L.:  Or, who will imitate nature so abominably.  Your head is level, Ham., and I—­even I, Laertes, suffered at the hands of one Whose fiery hair, parted in the middle Like a cranberry pie, caused me to believe That some of nature’s journeymen had made a man, And not made him well, he imitated nature So abominably.

    S. of H.:  Ha’ the fair Ophelia!

    (Enter Shade of Ophelia.)

S. of O.:  Yes, my lord, thine own Ophelia, Come back to earth with heaviness o’ grief Thy madness ne’er begot, for I have seen The efforts of a lisping, smirking maid, As graceful as a bean-pole, and as lean.  Attempt to paint the sorrow of my heart.  Oh, I would get me to a nunnery.

    S of H.:  Let me Ophelyour pulse. 
    Mad—­quite mad; and all because
    A creature whom these mortals call a Miss,
    Quite properly, as her efforts are amiss,
    Would fain portray thee.  Soft you, now! 
    O fair Ophelia.  Nymph in thine orisons
        Be all her sins remembered. 
    Why let the stricken deer go weep,
      The untrained amateur play? 
    All those that watch must surely weep. 
      So wise men stay away.

    (Flickering blue lights and curtain.)

The Abused Gallant.

    Two lovely maidens (woe is me!)
      Play tennis with my heart;
    And each is wondrous fair to see,
      And each is wondrous smart.

    In learning, money, beauty, birth,
      None can surpass them—­none. 
    But each receives my “court” with mirth,
      And tells the other one.