Read Ebook: 'A Comedy of Errors' in Seven Acts by Spokeshave

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Ebook has 181 lines and 42476 words, and 4 pages

ACT IV

Dramatis Personae

ACT V

Dramatis Personae

ACT VI

Dramatis Personae

My lute doth troll the longings of my heart; Deep-rooted there Are forms so fair Whose mem'ry of my life doth form a part.

But like the knights of old, when action calls, My Lady fair, With raven hair, Must be forgot till lovelit twilight falls.

But then those forms angelic in each line, With happy smile Which doth beguile, Appear before me, whisp'ring love divine.

Dramatis Personae

SIR WINDBAG SEEKS ADVICE OF COUNT LUIE

Dramatis Personae

COUNT LUIE: My honest frend, for so I speak thee fair, Since thou hast from thy shoulders ever cast That damning cloak, Republican in woof. And armor of Democracy hast donned, Fear not that words so deep an import bear. The mob applauds today, but quick forgets. I once, before we kenned our party's stand, Did lightly tongue imperialistic thoughts. The throng did loud applaud my eloquence, Which made demand that Filipinos here Should be debarred, when they procession form, From proudly marching 'neath their flag of state. And now my tender bowels do me gripe As I reflect that this tyrannic act Runs counter to the doctrines thou dost teach, Because, you bet, "they know just what they want."

SIR WINDBAG: But will the rabble not thy words recall, And like to mud, flung from the grutter deep, Will they not sore disfigure and besmirch Thy reputation for consistency?

COUNT LUIE: Fear not; we who do ornament the bar Can twist and turn as doth the shuttle-cock, And in our mouths today words have a ring Which changes with tomorrow's rising sun.

SIR WINDBAG: I quick discern the import of thy speech, And in the past have seen it verified. If mem'ries of the people were not short, Disaster to us patriots would befall. When like a parson one can slip the tongue And speed it like a race-horse on its course, 'Tis well; but let some ill-bred boor Bold interruption make, in query's form, The discourse of its symmetry is shorn, While bond of sympathy 'twixt him who speaks And those who list receives a brutral shock, Which doth demand dexterity to soothe. Thus, when I wisdom spouted at the club, A man most pestulent did query put Anent the spreading of our civic rule O'er Moros, if it proved to be the case That they demur and, "knowing what they want," Prefer to rule themselves in custom's groove. I, loyal to the ethics of our craft Tried to becloud the query, and declared That Moros loved the Filipinos well. But this persistent boor did pin me down Until imprudently I answered, "No!" And this unwisdom now doth trouble me.

COUNT LUIE: But, gentle Windbag, these were idle words Which on the record have no place. 'Twere well To quick erase them from the memory: Words only spoken vanish into air.

SIR WINDBAG: Thou dost console me, Luie, and I feel A kindred spirit fills thy giant form; But tell me, from among thy many friends Are hearts that for me beat in sympathy?

SIR WINDBAG: But when "the Man of God" his voice doth raise In ecstasy to praise my every word, Will not his former flock follow the bell Which in the past hath led to pastures green?

COUNT LUIE: Alas, I fear their memories will point To former words, which voiced another song, When he did nurse at theologic teat And softly chant imperialistic creed.

SIR WINDBAG: But this Sandixo seems a proper man, Who boasts a heart welling with gratitude. He eloquent approved my every word, And lays his duty wholly at my feet. His words do ring as from an honest mould, Yet rumor whispers divers ugly tales. Thou knowest how his record truly reads: How far should confidence extend her hand?

SIR WINDBAG: Ah Ha! I see! The game, not fairly played, Doth lose its zest, and confidence once lost, Like to a maiden's virtue, ne'er can be Restored. 'Tis sad, yet though 'tis sad, 'tis true. But, honored sir, the hint you give will keep. Perhaps this man may look with greedy eye Upon some high official post, which we Must give because "he knows just what he wants."

COUNT LUIE: But softly, friend, if this thy doctrine be, 'Twere best to pack thy grip and ready stand To get thee hence; for in these lovely Isles There be not seats of honor to go round.

COUNT LUIE: A royal flush; he doth, for in time past, 'Neath Aguinaldo, he that chair did fill!

SIR WINDBAG: But tell me, is this not a pliant race Which skilful hand may at its pleasure mould?

COUNT LUIE: 'Tis said the serpent warming on the breast With sting doth ever show its gratitude!

SIR WINDBAG: Thou by enigma seemingly imply That all our labors here are but in vain. Methought within thy heart dwelt confidence In the ability of this proud race To guide their ship of state on troubled seas, And trim its sails to meet each threat'ning storm. But now thy cynicism breeds a fear That thy past words do bear "Pickwickian sense."

COUNT LUIE: Sir Windbag, thou unto our party grand Art but a convert new, and needs must learn That platforms are the Bible which we read, And to them we do blindly pin our faith. If one has doubts, he, like a Christian true, Must stifle them and reason throw aside, 'Tis thus we from the Sunny South do act, When facts run counter to our party creed.

SIR WINDBAG: Alas! I in my innocence did deem The words you uttered in the last campaign Did true portray the situation here, But now I fear they were but party gush. But, ah! "The pen is mightier than the sword." These venomed quills must be from porcupine; For deeper do they bore, as I reflect That I invited all their smarting wounds. I sought to give their idol Worcester but His proper place by "damning with faint praise;" And now they prod me as the muleteer Doth goad his jackass when he thoughtless brays.

COUNT LUIE: But, sir, remember that the ass can kick, And that when kicking, asses never bray, So gird your armor on and lop each head Who hath at your dilemma dared to scoff.

SIR WINDBAG: But Riggs! he hath in beaten trail proclaimed What the old regimen hath always mouthed. While I the "Era New" did bold announce, And now my head is crowned with pricking thorns.

COUNT LUIE, : Thine adversaries, though at vantage now, Should be subdued by strategy and guile. I from sore strait triumphant did emerge Through trenchant pen of a compatriot. This noble scion of Democracy Did wield a telling blow in my behalf And thrust the adversary 'neath the rib, Laying him low in controversial dust.

SIR WINDBAG, : His name? his name? that I may quick engage This champion to bolster up my cause.

COUNT LUIE, : He is but small in stature, but, ye goods, His valor fits his name, which is, La Mutt.

AN IMAGINARY OFFICIAL CONSULTATION

Dramatis Personae

SIR WINDBAG: But, Francos, list; a more disturbing mob, Whose crop is filled with discord and contempt, On which they daily feed, I ne'er have sized. 'Twere well to laws enact to hold in curb These brainless cubs who wield a pricking quill And words indite with vitriol for an ink, Which burns the meaning into quiv'ring brain And leaveth scars which time can ne'er efface. A son of Erin in official place Did eulogize my effort at the club; And I, elated, loaned it to the press For publication if the writer willed; But scruples seemed to fill his vacuous mind, Hence it was hidden from the public gaze. Now it hath disappeared, and Rumor saith 'Tis to be published in a stealthy way. Zounds! 'tis enough to cause the blood to course Like mercury adown the burning veins. Could I but lay my eager hands upon The thiefly neck, I'd wring it with good zest.

FRANCOS: But, Windbag; why didst thou thy tongue unloose, And set it wagging vaporings and froth? Thou mightest have known the foe didst ready stand To thrust thy words adown thy choking throat. Imprudence on its shoulders ever bears A burden which may crush its author down; 'Twere best to keep the pen in constant leash, For, words, indited not, work little harm.

FRANCOS: Alas! 'tis true. Indoctrined by the words So eloquently voiced by one who long Hath dwelt within this city, where before The bar he wondrous reputation gained, I waited not to form a judgment sound, But leaning on a faith of fiction born, Awoke to find selfseeking underneath Each silver work this vampire spouted forth.

SIR WINDBAG: Francos, indeed thou hast my sympathy For this fat prophet wore an honest mien So that e'en I who boast a subtile brain Did fall before his wordy blandishments. 'Tis well! we then are quits. But why this call? What matter of great import draws us here?

SIR HIGGS: Most honored sirs, why this entanglement? Both, through the want of deep experience, Have, as the sacred writer once did say, "Over the whiffle trees foolishly kicked."

SIR HENMART: Ha, Ha! Sir Higgs, the Bible saith not so! But but let it pass. We politicians read The party platform more than sacred word, And make it standard for our daily lives.

FRANCOS: But, sirs, the matter pertinent this hour Involves the honor of our party's name. When first I reached these shores, one Seldonskip, As scrivener, did bear me company. Alas! he captive fell to woman's wiles And with a former gallant measured arms Hence I was forced, if peace were to be kept, To send him "kiting" to his distant home. This strippling came of Democratic stock, Hence, to protect our party from dire shame, I tried to keep the cause of his deport A secret close, within official halls. But emissaries from the spying press Did quick discern the matter and did blaze It on the pages of their various sheets And point with scorn at Democratic worth!

SIR HENMART: But, Sire, 'tis in the past, and what have we To do with fool gyratings of this callow youth? In Kansas we do low within the grave Deep bury memories that prove unkind.

SIR HIGGS: But, Sire, this dire misfortune comes in trail Of boosting all who wear the party tag. If I should speak the promptings of my heart, 'Twould to be give this fool a parting kick.

SIR WINDBAG: But there be may in this bristling mob Who slur at all who from proud Caesar's hand Have gladly licked the crumbs his bounty gave To soothe the hunger of his starving host.

FRANCOS: Ha! Thou hast hit the nail upon the head, These bumpkins must not have a new made food For laughter at our misadventure here, Hence it were wise to send this fellow off As if he in the path of duty treads. Nor must we breathe but that his quick return Will fill expectant hearts with honest joy, Thus may we darken shades of memory.

SIR HENMART: But did this officer a contest wage, With her whose heart went out unto her bird?

FRANCOS: What! hast thou heard, on wings of rumor borne, This matter in full detail free discussed?

SIR HIGGS: Sir, 'tis but common chatter on the streets. And naught can hide it from the public gaze.

FRANCOS: Alas, there is one remedy in view We all must strong denial ever make. Oh, that one of the scum so strong entrenched Had by his conduct rendered me a chance! I would his vileness on the nonce have voiced, But now 'twere best to cloud this matter well.

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