Jacconot.
What mean'st by discarding me, and why is it? 'Slud! is this the right sort of return for all my skilful activities, my adroit fascinations of young lords in drink, my tricks at dice, cards, and dagger-play, not to speak too loudly of bets on bear-baits, soap-bubbles, and Shrovetide cocks; or my lies about your beauty and temper? Have I not brought dukes and earls and reverend seniors, on tip-toe, and softly whispering for fear of "the world," right under the balcony of your window?—O, don't beat the dust with your fine foot! These be good services, I think!
Cecilia (half aside).
Alas! alas!—the world sees us only as bright, though baleful stars, little knowing our painful punishments in the dark—our anguish in secret.
Jacconot.
Are you thinking of me?
Cecilia.
Go!
Jacconot.
Go!—a death's-head crown your pillow! May you dream of love, and wake and see that!