I tried to compose a burlesque, and it seems to be turning halfway through into an epic.

What is to be done with such a world?
In the Lord's name, wasn't the joke broad and bold enough?
I abandoned my subtle humour to amuse you, and I seem to have brought tears to your eyes.

What's to be done with people when you write a pantomime for them--call the sausages classic festoons, and the policeman cut in two a tragedy of public duty?
But why am I talking?
Why am I asking questions of a nice young gentleman who is totally mad?
What is the good of it?
What is the good of anything?
Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!" Suddenly he pulled himself upright.
"Don't you really think the sacred Notting Hill at all absurd ?" "Absurd ?" asked Wayne, blankly.

"Why should I ?" The King stared back equally blankly.
"I beg your pardon," he said.
"Notting Hill," said the Provost, simply, "is a rise or high ground of the common earth, on which men have built houses to live, in which they are born, fall in love, pray, marry, and die.

Why should I think it absurd ?" The King smiled.
"Because, my Leonidas--" he began, then suddenly, he knew not how, found his mind was a total blank.