Punch now enters with a large sheep bell, which he rings violently, while he dances around the stage. He then sings a song, beginning, "Mr. Punch is a very gay man." In the midst of this there formerly entered a servant dressed in a foreign livery; but the servant is now generally done away with, and we have a policeman in his stead. The policeman begins by ordering him to go away, because a gentleman, or "an old woman," who lives near by, won't have the noise.
PUNCH (with surprise and mocking him): The gentleman he says he don't like that noise! What noise?
POLICEMAN: That nasty noise.
PUNCH: Do you call music a noise?
POLICEMAN: The gentleman don't like music, Mr. Punch. So we'll have no more music near his house.
PUNCH: He don't, don't he? Very well.
(PUNCH runs about the stage, ringing the bell as loudly as he can.)
POLICEMAN: Get away, I say, with that nasty bell.
PUNCH: What bell?
POLICEMAN: That bell (striking it with his hand).
PUNCH: That's a good one. Do you call this a bell? Why, it is an organ!
POLICEMAN: I say it's a bell – a nasty bell.
PUNCH: I say it is an organ (striking him with it). What do you say it is now?
POLICEMAN: An organ, Mr. Punch.
PUNCH: An organ? It is a fiddle. Can't you see? (Offers to strike him again.)
POLICEMAN: It is a fiddle.
PUNCH: I say it is a drum.
POLICEMAN: It is a drum, Mr. Punch.
PUNCH: I say it is a trumpet.
POLICEMAN: Well, so it is a trumpet. But bell, organ, fiddle, drum, or trumpet, the gentleman he says he does not like music.
PUNCH: Then bell, organ, fiddle, drum, or trumpet, Mr. Punch he says the gentleman's a fool.
POLICEMAN: And he says he'll not have it near his house.
PUNCH: He's a fool, I say, not to like my sweet music. Tell him so. Be off. (Hits him with the bell.) Get along. (Driving the POLICEMAN round the stage backwards, and striking him often with the bell.) Be off, be off. (Knocking him off the stage. PUNCH continues to ring the bell as loudly as before, while he sings and dances.)
А вот Вудхауз, Thank You, Jeeves, первая глава:
'You ought to be certified!'
'I beg your pardon?'
'You are a public menace. For weeks, it appears, you have been making life a hell for all your neighbours with some hideous musical instrument. I see you have it with you now. How dare you play this thing in a respectable block of flats? Infernal din!'
I remained cool and dignified.
'Did you just say "infernal din"?'
'Oh? Well, let me tell you that the man that hath no music in himself...' I stepped to the door. 'Jeeves,' I called down the passage, 'what was it Shakespeare said the man who hadn't music in himself was fit for?'
'Treasons, stratagems and spoils, sir.'
'Thank you, Jeeves. Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils,' I said, returning.
He danced a step or two.
'Are you aware that the occupant of the flat below, Mrs Tinkler-Moulke, is one of my patients, a woman in a highly nervous condition. I have had to give her a sedative.'
I shook the head.
'I am sorry she is a cold audience, but my art must come first.'
'That is your final word, is it?'
'Very good. You will hear more of this.'
'And Mrs Tinkler-Moulke will hear more of this,' I replied, brandishing the banjolele.