Sir T. [Giving Hildreth the cheque]
Yet I die solvent, Hildreth. Belfry's cheque:
It rings a merry peal. Unless—By Heaven!
Belfry, you'll not exact this now!
Hildreth. He's gone,
Sir Tristram.
Sir T. Fearing the appeal of death,
I verily believe.—A music-hall?
It matters nothing what comes after me:
I had my day.
Groom. Abuse, deride, provoke
Me back to madness: thought and deed are seas
Asunder: I would lay my own life down
Not to have struck. Machines we are, wound up
To weave we know not what. I languish now
Like wing'd exasperation that expends
A virulent dart, and, hebetated, dies.
[Enter Temple.]
Temple. Sir Tristram! Where's my master?
Salerne. Silence, fool!
Temple. But something terrible has come to pass.
Sir T. Something extravagant since Temple shouts.
Temple. Are you dead also, sir?