Alas, poor dryer, I knew him Horatio. A machine of infinite heat, of most excellent tumbling. He hast borne my laundry 10,000 times. And now, how abhorred my imagination is. My washing rises at it. Here hung those drums that I have filled I know not how oft. Where be your beep now? your thumping shoes? your songs? your flashes of static that were wont to set the cat fur on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own gaping door? Quite chap- fall'n? Now get you to my laundry chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come. Make her laugh having to hang out to dry.