Burgum. Remember that my daughter's here.
Chatterton. Forgive me. If I could aid you, I do vow I would, But 'tis beyond my power. [Aside.] I do regret, For her sweet sake, I played the prank.
Burgum. Well, well; I fear your going would not further me.
Chatterton. [Aside.] You'll learn that soon enough.
Burgum. [Taking coin from purse.] Here is a shilling; Your landlady asserts you are in need.
Chatterton. [In anger.] 'Tis false!--a lie.
Burgum. Well, Bertha, was I right? And, Chatterton, I'll give you this advice. You eat too much or too irregular. A much disordered stomach is a rot From which young imps, bred like to maggots, rise, And pester sore the brain. Could I destroy The miseries by bad digestion blown, I'd be the benefactor of the age-- Yea! of all time. The world is gone astray: Your melancholy bard o'erloads his paunch, And thinks it is poetic pregnancy.
Chatterton. Few poets have a chance to overfeed.
Mrs. Angell. [To Burgum.] Pardon, sir. There is a gentleman below, who says He must see you at once. Shall he come up?
Mrs. Angell. I'll tell him so. [Exit Mrs. Angell.]
Burgum. He may bring news about the Pedigree. [To Bertha.] Wait here; I shall return. [Exit Burgum.]
Chatterton. [Going to table.] Fair advocate, For your defence my thanks must be the fee. You come from Bristol--is my mother well?
Chatterton. No, no, of course: My head is heavy.
Chatterton. Perhaps; yet more I need another mind That turns not giddy on this whirling sphere. But that is naught to any one save me-- Who cares for Chatterton?
Bertha. There's one at least: One who beheld him roam the Bristol streets Beset by dangers of a forward youth-- Misunderstood, unhappy; one who knows All that he must have suffered here from want, From loneliness, and hopes unrealized; One who for him will offer up her prayers.
Chatterton. Have mercy, lady, do not make me weep. You do not know me: I am harsh indeed. I have a most unlucky way of raillery, And when the fit of satire is upon me, I spare not friend nor foe. Your father's duped.
Bertha. Why then we shall be happier; so 'tis well.
Chatterton. Part of this wretchedness that seethes within Is due to damned, unconquerable pride, And part from hot imagination flows.-- My brain's afire.