Poe. The weather, madam, will admit of no delay. Since you are so determined, I must give up hope and seek shelter under Jove’s great canopy.
Mrs. S. O, don’t go there, Mr. Poe—it ’s a bad place, that Canpy house, an’ I ’ve heard Jove talked about for a vile barkeep! I guess since you’re so impetus I ’ll say yes to these addresses of marriage, Mr. Poe.
Poe. Ha! ha! ha!
Mrs. S. What do you mean, Mr. Poe? My dear Eddie, I should say!
Poe. I mean, madam, that death loves a joke.
Mrs. S. O, my sweet Eddie, don’t be talkin’ about death. You’re so pale I don’t wonder—and a’most starved out I ’ll venture my word for it. But you won’t know yourself in a week. I ’ve got the sweetest room downstairs—all in blue an’ white, with a bed three feet o’ feathers, soft as a goosebreast, I warrant, an’ I ’ll tuck you in an’ bring you a toddy that ’ll warm you to your toes, it will, an’—
Poe. Ha! ha! ha! Well, why not? I seize this wretched plank or sink with all that in me is. Men have done it. But not Edgar Poe! Sell my soul for a broth-dish—a saucepan—a feather-bed—
Mrs. S. O, he ’s out of his mind, sure he is! My sweet Eddie, he ’s loved me distracted!
Poe. Can this be woman?
Mrs. S. Law me!