Heart-weary player in this pageant-world
Drops out by, letting the main masque defile
By the conspicuous portal: I am through—
Just through!
Guen. Don't leave him, Austin! Death is close.
Tresh. Already Mildred's face is peacefuller.
I see you, Austin—feel you: here's my hand,
Put yours in it—you, Guendolen, yours too!
You 're lord and lady now—you're Treshams; name
And fame are yours: you hold our 'scutcheon up.