oly
literary man.

And we die for love of thee! Now is not this ridiculous,
and is not this preposterous?
They all prefer this melancholy,
Yes, we die for love of thee! melancholy literary man.
Now is not this ridiculous,
and is not this preposterous?

COLONEL [R.C.] Angela! what is the meaning of this?

ANGELA [C.] Oh, sir, leave us; our minds are but ill-tuned to
light love-talk.

MAJOR [L.C.] But what in the world has come over you all?

JANE [L.C.] Bunthorne! He has come over us. He has come among
us, and he has idealized us.

DUKE Has he succeeded in idealizing you?

JANE He has!

DUKE Good old Bunthorne!

JANE My eyes are open; I droop despairingly; I am soulfully
intense; I am limp and I cling!

[During this BUNTHORNE is seen in all the agonies of composition.
The Ladies are watching him intently as he writhes. At last
he hits on the word he wants and writes it down. A general
sense of relief.]

BUN. Finished! At last! Finished!

[He staggers, overcome with the mental strain, into the arms of
the COLONEL.]

COLONEL Are you better now?

BUN. Yes -- oh, it's you! -- I am better now. The poem is
finished, and my soul has gone out into it. That was all. It
was nothing worth mentioning, it occurs three times a day.

[Sees PATIENCE, who has entered during this scene.]

Ah, Patience! Dear Patience!

[Holds her hand; she seems frightened.]

ANGELA Will it please you read it to us, sir?

SAPHIR This we supplicate. [All kneel.]

BUN. Shall I?

DRAGOONS No!

BUN. [annoyed -- to PATIENCE] I will read it if you bid me!

PATIENCE [much frightened] You can if you like!

BUN. It is a wild, weird, fleshy thing; yet very tender, very
yearning, very precious. It is called, "Oh, Hollow! Hollow!
Hollow!"

PATIENCE Is it a hunting song?

BUN. A hunting song? No, it is not a hunting song. It is the
wail of the poet's heart on discovering that everything is
commonplace. To understand it, cling passionately to one another
and think of faint lilies.
[They do so as he recites]

"OH, HOLLOW! HOLLOW! HOLLOW!"

What time the p