LEADER.  And what else, captious Newcomer, say, should I be?  But you know not to whom you are talking, I see:  (With dignity) I’m the friend of the Muses, and Pan with his pipe, Holds me dearer by far than a cherry that’s ripe:  For the reed and the cane which his music supply, Who gives them their tone and their moisture but I?  And therefore for ever I’ll utter my cry Of—­

  Chorus. Croak, croak, croak.

  BACCHUS.  I’m blister’d, I’m fluster’d, I’m sick, I’m ill—­

  Chorus. Croak, croak.

  BACCHUS.  My dear little bull-frog, do prithee be still. 
  ’Tis a sorry vocation—­that reiteration,
  (I speak on, my honour, most musical nation,)
  Of croak, croak.

  LEADER (maestoso.) When the sun rides in glory and makes a bright day,
  Mid lilies and plants of the water I stray;
  Or when the sky darkens with tempest and rain,
  I sink like a pearl in my watery domain: 
  Yet, sinking or swimming.  I lift up a song,
  Or I drive a gay dance with my eloquent throng,
    Then hey bubble, bubble—­
    For a knave’s petty trouble,
  Shall I my high charter and birth-right revoke? 
    Nay, my efforts I’ll double,
    And drive him like stubbie
  Before me, with—­

  Chorus.  Croak, croak, croak.

  BACCHUS.  I’m ribs of steel, I’m heart of oak,
  Let us see if a note
  May be found in this throat
  To answer their croak, croak, croak.
                                (Croaks loudly.)

LEADER.  Poor vanity’s son—­ And dost think me outdone, With a clamour no bigger Than a maiden’s first snigger? (To Chorus) But strike up a tune, He shall not forget soon

  (Chorus.) Of our croak, croak, croak,

  (Croak, with a discordant crash of music.)

  BACCHUS.  I’m cinder, I’m coke,
  I have had my death-stroke;
  O, that ever I woke
  To be gall’d by the yoke
  Of this croak, croak, croak, croak.

  LEADER.  Friend, friend, I may not be still: 
  My destinies high I must needs fulfil,
  And the march of creation—­despite reprobation
  Must proceed with—­(To Chor.) my lads, must I make application
  For a—­

  Chorus.  Croak, croak, croak.

  BACCHUS (in a minor key.) Nay, nay—­take your own way,
  I’ve said out my say,
  And care naught, by my fai’,
                For your croak, croak, croak.

  LEADER.  Care or care not, ’tis the same thing to me,
  My voice is my own and my actions are free;
  I have but one note, and I’ll chant it with glee,
  And from morning to night that note it shall be—­

Chorus.  Croak, croak, croak.

BACCHUS.  Nay then, old rebel, but I’ll stop your treble,
With a poke, poke, poke: 
Take this from my rudder—­(dashing at the frogs)—­and that from my oar,
And now let us see if you’ll trouble us more
With your croak, croak, croak.