Chatterton. He habited a world within a world—
This globe of fancy, where strange creatures live,
And all the business of existence moves
Unrecked of, as though on some distant orb.—
Thank heaven! that, being a poet, he dwelt not here.
Burgum. [Despairingly.] What shall I do?
Bertha. [To Chatterton.] Can nothing be contrived
By which my father may derision 'scape?
Chatterton. [To Burgum, after a thoughtful pause.]
You are not known in London; what is done
Will ne'er to Bristol come: you can give out,
Anent the pedigree, 'twas all your joke.
Play your cards slowly, and with that same tact
With which you bargain for your tin and lead;
And, sir, the game is yours.
Burgum. [Chuckling.] To turn the laugh
Upon the laughers—good—that is the trick.
Come, daughter, come.
Mrs. Angell. 'Tis dark: I'll go before.
[Exit Mrs. Angell followed by Burgum.]
Bertha. Good-by.
Chatterton. O lady, when I said good-by
To my dear mother on the cloudy night
I took the coach for London, I did feel
As though that word were fully charged with grief;
But 'twas not so.
Bertha. O, sir, do not despair;
And should we never meet again, believe
My thoughts will ever wander back to you.
Chatterton. We shall not meet again.