Is this a Bauer Vapor which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? Or art thou but
A stick of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I deke.
Thou marshall’st me the way that I was skating
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' th' other senses,
Or else worth all the rest.
Bard Marchand returns: "Is this a Bauer Vapor which I see before me?"
