Act 2

  Sir Walter has dress’d himself up like a Ghost,
  And frightens a soldier away from his post;
  Then, discarding his helmet, he pulls his cloak higher,
  Draws it over his ears and pretends he’s a Friar. 
  This gains him access to his sweetheart, Miss Faucit;
  But, the King coming in, he hides up in her closet;
  Where, oddly enough, among some of her things,
  He discovers some arrows he’s sure are the King’s,
  Of the very same pattern with that which he found
  Sticking into his father when dead on the ground! 
  Forgetting his funk, he bursts open the door,
  Bounces into the drawing-room, stamps on the floor,
  With an oath on his tongue, and revenge in his eye,
  And blows up King William the Second sky-high;
  Swears, storms, shakes his fist, and exhibits such airs,
  That his Majesty bids his men kick him downstairs.

Act 3

  King Rufus is cross when he comes to reflect,
  That, as King, he’s been treated with gross disrespect;
  So he pens a short note to a holy physician,
  And gives him a rather unholy commission,
  Viz., to mix up some arsenic and ale in a cup,
  Which the chances are Tyrrel may find and drink up. 
  Sure enough, on the very next morning, Sir Walter
  Perceives, in his walks, this same cup on the altar. 
  As he feels rather thirsty, he’s just about drinking,
  When Miss Faucit, in tears, comes in running like winking;
  He pauses, of course, and, as she’s thirsty too,
  Says, very politely, “Miss, I after you!”
  The young lady curtsies, and, being so dry,
  Raises somehow her fair little finger so high,
  That there’s not a drop left him to “wet t’other eye”;
  While the dose is so strong, to his grief and surprise,
  She merely says, “Thankee, Sir Walter,” and dies. 
  At that moment the King, who is riding to cover,
  Pops in en passant on the desperate lover,
  Who has vow’d, not five minutes before, to transfix him—­
  So he does—­he just pulls out his arrow and sticks him. 
  From the strength of his arm, and the force of his blows,
  The Red-bearded Rover falls flat on his nose;
  And Sir Walter, thus having concluded the quarrel,
  Walks down to the footlights, and draws this fine moral: 
  “Ladies and gentlemen, lead sober lives: 
  Don’t meddle with other folks’ sweethearts or wives!—­
  When you go out a-sporting take care of your gun,
  And—­never shoot elderly people in fun!”

IN A VISITOR’S BOOK
[Sidenote:  J.K.  Stephen.]

  Within the bounds of this Hotel,
    Which bears the name of Pen-y-Gwryd,
  A black and yellow hound doth dwell,
    By which my friend and I were worried.

  Our object is not to imply
    That he assaulted, bit, or tore us;
  In fact he never ventured nigh
    Except when food was set before us.