_lst Witch_
"Round about the cauldron go,
In the poisoned whiskey throw
Lager, that on coldest stone,
Days and nights hast thirty one."
_Enter_ MACSTRAKOSCH. "How now, you secret black and midnight hags, what
is't you do?"
_All_ "A deed that under present circumstances it would be superfluous
to name."
_MacStrakosch_. "I conjure you by that which you profess, (how'er you
come to know it,) answer me to what I ask you."
_lst Witch_. "Speak."
_2d Witch_. "Proceed."
_3d Witch_. "Out with it, old boy."
_MacStrakosch_. "What do these fellows really think, whom we compel to
write so sweetly of our own Connecticut _prima donna_?"
_All_
"Come high or low, come jack or even game,
We'll answer all your questions just the same."
_Thunder. An apparition of a critic rises._
_MacStrakosch_.
"Tell me, thou unknown power, what thinkest thou Of our own native
nightingale?"
_Apparition_.
"Her voice is clear and bright, but far too thin
For a great singer.--Such in truth she's not.
Dismiss me!" (_Descends_.)
_MacStrakosch_.
"Dismissed thou shalt be if thy editor
Will listen to our singer's and MAECENAS' plaint.
But one word more."
_Thunder. Second apparition of a critic rises.
Apparition_.
"Her voice is good in quality, but then
There's not sufficient of it for a queen
Of the lyric stage.
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