Chatterton. No, no, of course:
My head is heavy.
Bertha. O, you do need aid!
Chatterton. Perhaps; yet more I need another mind
That turns not giddy on this whirling sphere.
But that is naught to any one save me—
Who cares for Chatterton?
Bertha. There's one at least:
One who beheld him roam the Bristol streets
Beset by dangers of a forward youth—
Misunderstood, unhappy; one who knows
All that he must have suffered here from want,
From loneliness, and hopes unrealized;
One who for him will offer up her prayers.
Chatterton. Have mercy, lady, do not make me weep.
You do not know me: I am harsh indeed.
I have a most unlucky way of raillery,
And when the fit of satire is upon me,
I spare not friend nor foe. Your father's duped.
Bertha. Why then we shall be happier; so 'tis well.
Chatterton. Part of this wretchedness that seethes within
Is due to damned, unconquerable pride,
And part from hot imagination flows.—
My brain's afire.
Bertha. I pity you the more:
Imaginary woes are real to him
Whom they oppress, and hardest to dispel;
And if you truly do deserve your fate,
Then have you more to bear.
Chatterton. You came in time;
To-morrow—to-morrow might have been too late.
Bertha. My father soon will come, and I would ask—