Volume 107 — AS WE LIKE IT.

—All the world's upon the stage, And here and there you really get a player: The exits rather than the entrances Are regulated by the County Council; And one man in a season sees a lot— Seven plays a week, including matinées, And several acts in each. And first the infant, A vernal blossom of the Garrick Caste, Playing the super in his bassinet, And innocently causing some chagrin To Mr. Eccles. Then there's Archibald, New Boy, and nearly father to the man, With mourning on his face and kicks behind, Returning under strong connubial stress Unwillingly to school. And next the lover, Sighing like Alexander for fresh fields, And plunging wofully to win a kiss, Even to his very eyebrows. Then the soldier, Armed with strange maxims and a carpet-bag, Cock-Shaw in military ironies, And blowing off the bubbling repartee With chocolate in his mouth. And next is Falstaff, In fair round belly with good bolsters lined, Full of wide sores, and badly cut about By Windsor hussies,—modern instances Of the revolting woman. Sixthly, Charley's Aunt. Now ancient as the earth, and shifting still The Penley pantaloons for ladies' gear, Her fine heroic waist a world too wide For the slim corset, and her manly lips, Tuned to the treble of a maiden's pipe, Grasping a big cigar. Last scene of all, The season's close and mere oblivion; Away to Europe and the provinces; And London left forlorn without them all, Sans-Gêne, Santuzza, yea, sans everything.