Sir T. If the play fails?
Europa. Can't I console you, Tristram?
Sir T. If it succeeds?
Europa. You triumph in my arms.
Sir T. Not tired of me?
Europa. Not nearly! Hateful word!
Are you tired, Tristram?
Sir T. A little, of myself.
Europa. Come home with me to-night, and you shall fall
In love with Tristram Sumner. I have charms
Beyond belief to make men love themselves.
You come?
Sir T. I come.
Europa. The coda, Tristram! Quick!
Clang, clash, sapristi, pomb! The overture
Is over. I must hear St. James's speak
His prologue.