Burgum. Well, Bertha, was I right?
And, Chatterton, I'll give you this advice.
You eat too much or too irregular.
A much disordered stomach is a rot
From which young imps, bred like to maggots, rise,
And pester sore the brain. Could I destroy
The miseries by bad digestion blown,
I'd be the benefactor of the age—
Yea! of all time. The world is gone astray:
Your melancholy bard o'erloads his paunch,
And thinks it is poetic pregnancy.
Chatterton. Few poets have a chance to overfeed.
Enter Mrs. Angell.
Bertha. O father, you are cruel.
Mrs. Angell. [To Burgum.] Pardon, sir.
There is a gentleman below, who says
He must see you at once. Shall he come up?
Burgum. No, no: I'll go to him.
Mrs. Angell. I'll tell him so.
[Exit Mrs. Angell.]
Burgum. He may bring news about the Pedigree.
[To Bertha.] Wait here; I shall return. [Exit Burgum.]
Chatterton. [Going to table.] Fair advocate,
For your defence my thanks must be the fee.
You come from Bristol—is my mother well?
Bertha. I really do not know.