'Who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Nymph in thy orisons Be all my sins remembered.' And he dropped his head on the table. He began stammering and talking at random. 'Within a month'! he delivered with fresh fire: 'A little month, or ere those shoes were old, With which she followed my poor father's body, Like Niobe--all tears; why she, even she-- O God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, Would have mourned longer!' He raised a glass of champagne to his lips, but did not drink off the wine, and went on: 'For Hecuba! What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her?... But I'm a dull and muddy mettled-rascal, Who calls me coward? gives me the lie i' the throat? ... Why I should take it; for it cannot be, But I am pigeon-livered and lack gall To make oppression bitter.' Karataev put down the glass and grabbed at his head. I fancied I understood him. 'Well, well,' he said at last, 'one must not rake up the past. Isn't that so?' (and he laughed). 'To your health!' 'Shall you stay in Moscow?' I asked him. 'I shall die in Moscow!' 'Karataev!' called a voice in the next room; 'Karataev, where are you? Come here, my dear fellow!' 'They're calling me,' he said, getting up heavily from his seat. 'Good-bye; come and see me if you can; I live in....' But next day, through unforeseen circumstances, I was obliged to leave Moscow, and I never saw Piotr Petrovitch Karataev again. XIX THE TRYST