I’m a tiny tiny thing
Ever flying in the spring
Round and round a ringaring.
Long ago I was a king
Now I do this kind of thing
On the wing, on the wing!
Bing!
_(He rushes against the mauve shade, flapping noisily.)_ Pretty pretty
pretty pretty pretty pretty petticoats.
_(From left upper entrance with two gliding steps Henry Flower comes
forward to left front centre. He wears a dark mantle and drooping
plumed sombrero. He carries a silverstringed inlaid dulcimer and a
longstemmed bamboo Jacob’s pipe, its clay bowl fashioned as a female
head. He wears dark velvet hose and silverbuckled pumps. He has the
romantic Saviour’s face with flowing locks, thin beard and moustache.
His spindlelegs and sparrow feet are those of the tenor Mario, prince
of Candia. He settles down his goffered ruffs and moistens his lips
with a passage of his amorous tongue.)_
HENRY: _(In a low dulcet voice, touching the strings of his guitar.)_
There is a flower that bloometh.
_(Virag truculent, his jowl set, stares at the lamp. Grave Bloom
regards Zoe’s neck. Henry gallant turns with pendant dewlap to the
piano.)_
STEPHEN: _(To himself.)_ Play with your eyes shut. Imitate pa. Filling
my belly with husks of swine. Too much of this. I will arise and go to
my. Expect this is the. Steve, thou art in a parlous way. Must visit
old Deasy or telegraph. Our interview of this morning has left on me a
deep impression. Though our ages. Will write fully tomorrow. I’m
partially drunk, by the way. _(He touches the keys again.)_ Minor chord
comes now. Yes. Not much however.
_(Almidano Artifoni holds out a batonroll of music with vigorous
moustachework.)_