Lady S. Not this time: you will fail: you will be hissed!
Sir T. Martha!
Lady S. I saw and heard: I hear it now.
The long hiss from the gallery like a scourge,
A skilful hiss that flicks the proper sore:
You only, not the play. Your race is run;
Come, be a man and die. After to-night
What life is ours? First, bankruptcy: the court,
Exposure of our choice extravagance,
That seemed so needful to our finer souls;
The sale of our belongings next, friends, foes
Bidding for things that are a part of us:
Oh, I would just as soon walk naked down
The Strand, as have my skirts and linen tossed
And fingered by the women-folk I know!
Give me the poison if you will not drink;
I'll die alone. Give it me, when I ask!
Will you not give it me? And afterwards—
Oh afterwards! The provinces! What said
Poor Warwick? I remember: "Stations, inns,
"Provincial companies and theatres,
"The dismallest labyrinth where every step
"Stumbles at skeletons of dead ambitions!"
Give me my vial, Tristram; give it me.
Sir T. You know the play will fail! you hear that hiss?
Lady S. Nothing is surer.
Sir T. Then we must not die,
For should we die we make your vision vain.
Lady S. How can you jest! Oh, hateful! Oh, unkind!
Sir T. Not so: I say your augury mistakes;
I challenge you to live and find it false.
Lady S. You know it is not false. I speak the truth,
Nothing but truth!
Sir T. Why, then, an intermede! Had I your maidenhead?