Poe. Death! It is all the life that is left to me, and you deny it!
Vir. Be quiet, love. You will wake our mother.
Poe. Down, gods, and let the lady sleep!
Vir. She is not well, Edgar.
Poe. But she will be well to-morrow, and I—I am immortally sick and you deny me a drop of wine.
Vir. O, my poor boy! I ’m so sorry for you!
Poe. And is that all, O Heaven? I ’m her poor boy, and she is so sorry for me! Why, here ’s a heart that loosens in its throbs the birth-song of new stars! Come, strike thy chime with mine, and though all bells upon the planet jingle, in us will still be music!
Vir. O, Edgar!
Poe. Well?
Vir. I can not speak.