Sir T. Women are merciless!
Lady S. And that's the cue! I speak for Hector, Warwick.
"Unarm thee, go; and doubt thou not, brave boy,
"I'll stand to-day for thee and me and Troy."
Groom. "Brother, you have a vice of mercy in you
"Which better fits a lion than a man."
Lady S. "What vice is that, good Troilus? Chide me for it."
Groom. "When many times the captive Grecians fall,
"Even in the fan and wind of your fair sword,
"You bid them rise and live."
Lady S. "O, 'tis fair play!"
Groom. "Fool's play"—I'll not go on, for I have asked
Like courteous mercy, Tristram.
Sir T. You have brought
Mercy to us, boy—a Troilus unmatched
From swift Scamander to the lordly Thames.
Groom. Then am I happy. Tristram, Martha, years
How many have I wasted; ten, a dozen,
Despairing up and down the railways, caught
And imprisoned, like some adventurer
Forlorn, in dreary tunnels, stations, inns,
Provincial companies and theatres,
The dismallest labyrinth where every step
Stumbles at skeletons of dead ambitions
And dying reputations; as close to London
As the suburbs are, further away, that is,
Than hell from heaven, and bitterer than hell.
Be hung upon the fringe of paradise,
Stewing in brimstone with the spicy scent
Of asphodel to lave the sulphurous air,
And envy Tantalus his pleasant lines
For ever and a day!
Sir T. You keep your zest
Of talk, your thunder and lightning.