Bertha. The rewards of poetry, father, only poets know.
Burgum. Another romantic speech! If you must worship a poet, worship my collateral ancestor, Master John de Bergham, a Cistercian monk, one of the greatest ornaments of his age—so the Pedigree reads—and a translator of the Iliad. This boy never can be a poet: he knows no Latin and Greek.
Bertha. He is not writing Latin and Greek.
Burgum. I regret that I permitted you to come. You are a sentimental girl likely to fall in love with such a vagabond as Chatterton.
Bertha. Do not call him a vagabond, father: you owe so much to him.
Burgum. For what?
Bertha. Your Pedigree.
Burgum. He has been paid.
Bertha. Yes—a crown.
Burgum. Hem! He shall have more after the College of Heralds has passed upon my claims—not before.