[He speaks with more and more passion, too distraught to notice interruptions. Enter Dickon, with a tallow-dip. He regards The Player with half-open mouth from the corner; then stands by the casement, leaning up against it and yawning now and then.]
I had no right: that I could call her mine
So none should steal her from me, and die for't.
There's nothing to avenge ... Brave beggary!
How fit to lodge me in this home of Shows,
With all the ruffian life, the empty mirth,
The gross imposture of humanity,
Strutting in virtues it knows not to wear,
Knave in a stolen garment—all the same—
Until it grows enamored of a life
It was not born to,—falls a-dream, poor cheat,
In the midst of its native shams,—the thieves and bears
And ballad-mongers all!... Of such am I.
[Re-enter Tobias and one or two Taverners. Tobias regards The Player, who does not notice anyone,—then leads off Dickon by the ear. Exeunt into taproom. The Player goes to the casement, pushes it wide open, and gazes out at the sky.]
Is there naught else?... I could make shift to bind
My heart up and put on my mail again,
To cheat myself and death with one fight more,
If I could think there were some worldly use
For bitter wisdom.
But I'm no general,
That my own hand-to-hand with evil days
Should cheer my doubting thousands....
I'm no more
Than one man lost among a multitude;
And in the end dust swallows them—and me,
And the good sweat that won our victories.
Who sees? Or seeing, cares? Who follows on?
Then why should my dishonor trouble me,
Or broken faith in him? What is it suffers?
And why? Now that the moon is turned to blood.
[He turns towards the door with involuntary longing, and seems to listen.]
No ... no, he will not come. Well, I have naught
To do but pluck from me my bitter heart,
And live without it.
[Re-enter Dickon with a tankard and a cup. He sets them down on a small table; this he pushes towards The Player, who turns at the noise.]
So...? Is it for me?
Dickon.
Ay, on the score! I had good sight o' the bear.
Look, here's a sprig was stuck on him with pitch;—
[Rubbing the sprig on his sleeve.]