Poe. I beg your pardon,—may I ask the name of this planet?

Bark. Eh?

Poe. Is it—the earth?

Bark. (Shaking him) None o’ your squibs!

Poe. (Recognizing and throwing him off with momentary strength) Do not touch me, George Thomas. I will go.

Black. (Flinging him a piece of silver, which falls to the floor) There ’s a bed for you.

Poe. I dare not touch it, sir, lest I be infected, for the angels who look upon us know that I shall be in health when fever shall sit on your bones and agues make their bed in your marrow!

Jug. A gentleman can’t stand that jaw. Kick him out, Thomas, or I will.

Poe. Do not touch me! You walking clay! who button your coats about three meals a day and think you have belted in the universe! Go listen to the sea lapping rock and bone to her oblivious mill, and know your hearts shall sleep as sand within her shells! By the dead worlds that drift in yonder void, and long have sung the swan-song of their deities, this too shall pass, and ere it passes flesh shall learn its impotence! Grey stalkers from the past shall clutch the throat of days! All wrongs shall rise and gather their revenge! And man—

Sharp. Here you crazy Tom! That’s just enough!