The curtain rose out of the concluding bars of the overture and revealed Isolde on the prow of the barbaric ship. Should it e'er be my lot to ride backwards that way, At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay; I'll summon the landlord—I'll call for the Bowl, And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul! Whatever may hap, I'll taste of the tap, To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. “It makes one feel quite awkward to mention such a thing, but after all I think that it is best for both parties.
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