Mrs. Angell. Here is a letter, sir, that came to-day.
[Hands letter to Chatterton.]
Chatterton. [To himself.]
This is in Barrett's hand: it seals my doom.
[Opens letter and reads to himself.]
I cannot recommend you for the place
Of surgeon's mate—you know too little physic.
[Tears up letter and throws pieces on floor.]
Mrs. Angell. Bad news?
Chatterton. Good news—a warrant for my death.
Mrs. Angell. How pale you look! but I have that will bring
The color to your cheek. The lady begs
That you accept this as a loan. [Gives a purse to Chatterton.]
Chatterton. She's kind.
Heaven grant her happiness. [Throwing up purse.]
This yellow god
Distributes favors with a curious hand.
The kings of his creation are so low
Of forehead that their crowns sit on their eyebrows.
They have, for motley fools, wise men—so called
(Not wise enough to live within their age),
Who feed upon the bones their masters throw
Beneath the table. 'Tis the voice of fate,
Exclusion's cruel law, that he who carries
In the clouds his head shall stumble on the earth.
Here, take the trash—I am no pauper yet. [Gives purse to her.]
Mrs. Angell. [Aside.] The boy is surely crazed.
Chatterton. There, go at once.
I cannot, with these artificial words,
Show the brain busy, and keep out the thoughts
That knock to be admitted. No more—go!
Mrs. Angell. [With emotion.] I meant not to offend.
Chatterton. I am too rude.
I needs must take a tenderer farewell.