Mon. Fond dreamer, peace!
Fame! What is fame? Will our unconscious dust
Start into thrilling rapture from the grave!
At the vain breath of praise? I tell thee, youth
Our souls are parch’d with agonising thirst,
Which must be quench’d, though death were in the draught:
We must have vengeance, for our foes have left
No other joy unblighted.
Pro. O my son!
The time is past for such high dreams as thine.