Sun. I mean that I want you to leave me alone.
First Hour. But, your Excellency, the night has already lasted so long that it cannot last any longer,—and if we were to wait, you see, your Excellency, it might give rise to some disorder.
Sun. Let come of it what will—I shall not move.
First Hour. Oh! your Excellency, what is this? don’t you feel well?
Sun. No, no—I don’t feel anything, except that I don’t want to move, so you may go about your business.
First Hour. How can I go, if you do not come?—for I am the first hour of the day. And how can there be any day at all if your Excellency does not deign to come out as usual?
Sun. If you are not the first hour of the day, you can be the first hour of the night; or else the night hours can go on double duty, and you and your companions may take it easy. Because—I tell you what it is: I am tired of this continual going round and round in order to give light to a few wretched little animals living on a handful of mud, so small that I, though I have pretty good sight, cannot manage to see it. So this night I have made up my mind that I can’t be bothered any more; and if men want light, let them keep their fires burning, or provide it in some other way.
First Hour. But how does your Excellency expect the poor wretches to manage it? And then it will be an enormous expense for them to keep up their lamps and provide candles enough to burn all day long. If they had already discovered that kind of air which will burn, and could use it to light up their streets, and rooms, and shops, and cellars, and everything else—and all at a small expense—why, then I should say that the thing was not so bad. But the fact is, that it will be three hundred years, more or less, till men find out that expedient; and in the meantime they will get to the end of all the oil, and wax, and pitch, and tallow, and have nothing more to burn.
Sun. Let them go and catch fireflies, or those little worms which shine in the dark.