Hildreth. Yes, but, my lord, the first night of a play!
Not in the history of the theatre——
[Enter Sir Tristram]
St. J. No more foreboding, Hildreth!
Sir T. Gervase! High
On Heaven's dark brow we'll hang your name to-night.
[Looking over the letters.]
Bills: invitations. Why should people charge
Each other for the things they need; and why
Should one man want to meet another man?
We know what men are. In a million, one
May have the right to meet his fellows—No;
Not one in twenty millions! Men deserve
Each other's scorn.—There's nothing, Hildreth, nothing.
Hildreth. Sir Tristram, I implore you!
Sir T. Leave us, Hildreth.
You shall command me when the curtain falls.
You please me always, Hildreth.
[Hildreth goes out]
St. J. So distraught!
You're like a woman, Tristram.
Sir T. A woman? True:
Old men are like old women. Don't we know
How age makes neuters of us? All alike
Unhappy; cold and bloodless, curst and shrill!
St. J. I understand! The black rings round your eyes—
Court mourning for a day of passion, spent
In some shameless bosom! Once you could drain
The fount of energy as genial men
Will do, may do; but when the world appears
Thereafter like a desolate seaboard stripped
At ebb of tide, men must begin to spare
Their native power: the nerves are perilous things
To sport with: palsy a price exorbitant
For passing pleasure: to adventure youth
Throughout one's life—why, Tristram, that's
To burn the candle in the middle too!