Lady S. Warwick Groom.
Sir T. Impossible: at any time impossible.
I hate him, Martha.
Lady S. Hate? Hate Warwick Groom!
I thought you hated no one.
Sir T. So did I!
But him I hate; because—he was my friend.
Lady S. And would be still.
Sir T. Therefore I hate him more!
But that's not true: hate fathoms hate, and answers
Index-like, the searching current of its thought,
Down through the earth, or round it in the nerveless
Air. Deep he hates me; by my hate I know.
I tell you, Martha, were Warwick Groom and I
Alone together for an hour, the death
Of either or of both would testify
Our rooted rancour.
Lady S. I cannot understand!
True, he is wild, this Warwick Groom of ours,
And doors are shut against him; but a braver
Artist starves not anywhere.
Sir T. Starves? Let him starve.
Lady S. This is so new, so sudden, Tristram!
Sir T. No;
Nothing is sudden that the heart brings forth.
The mushroom spawn of passing loves and hates
By thunder-showers and puddles quickly bred,
To rot as quickly, in sequestered nooks
Or by the trodden highways, are nothing—nothing
But rashes on the skin.