DOBSON. Gentleman! What be he a-doing here ten mile an' moor fro' a raäil? We laäys out o' the waäy fur gentlefoälk altogither--leastwaäys they niver cooms 'ere but fur the trout i' our beck, fur they be knaw'd as far as Littlechester. But 'e doänt fish neither. WILSON. Well, it's no sin in a gentleman not to fish. DOBSON. Noa, but I haätes 'im. WILSON. Better step out of his road, then, for he's walking to us, and with a book in his hand. DOBSON. An' I haätes booöks an' all, fur they puts foälk off the owd waäys. _Enter_ EDGAR, _reading--not seeing_ DOBSON _and_ WILSON. EDGAR. This author, with his charm of simple style And close dialectic, all but proving man An automatic series of sensations, Has often numb'd me into apathy Against the unpleasant jolts of this rough road That breaks off short into the abysses--made me A Quietist taking all things easily. DOBSON. (_Aside_.) There mun be summut wrong theer, Wilson, fur I doänt understan' it. WILSON. (_Aside_.) Nor I either, Mr. Dobson. DOBSON. (_Scornfully_.) An' thou doänt understan' it neither--and thou schoolmaster an' all. EDGAR. What can a man, then, live for but sensations, Pleasant ones? men of old would undergo Unpleasant for the sake of pleasant ones Hereafter, like the Moslem beauties waiting To clasp their lovers by the golden gates. For me, whose cheerless Houris after death Are Night and Silence, pleasant ones--the while-- If possible, here! to crop the flower and pass. DOBSON. Well, I never 'eard the likes o' that afoor. WILSON. (_Aside_.) But I have, Mr. Dobson. It's the old Scripture text, 'Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die.' I'm sorry for it, for, tho' he never comes to church, I thought better of him. EDGAR. 'What are we,' says the blind old man in Lear? 'As flies to the Gods; they kill us for their sport.' DOBSON. (_Aside_.) Then the owd man i' Lear should be shaämed of hissen, but noän o' the parishes goä's by that naäme 'ereabouts. EDGAR. The Gods! but they, the shadows of ourselves, Have past for ever. It is Nature kills, And not for _her_ sport either. She knows nothing. Man only knows, the worse for him! for why Cannot _he_ take his pastime like the flies? And if my pleasure breed another's pain, Well--is not that the course of Nature too, From the dim dawn of Being--her main law Whereby she grows in beauty--that her flies Must massacre each other? this poor Nature! DOBSON. Natur! Natur! Well, it be i' _my_ natur to knock 'im o' the 'eäd now; but I weänt. EDGAR. A Quietist taking all things easily--why-- Have I been dipping into this again To steel myself against the leaving her? (_Closes book, seeing_ WILSON.) Good day! WILSON. Good day, sir. (DOBSON _looks hard at_ EDGAR.) EDGAR. (_To_ DOBSON.) Have I the pleasure, friend, of knowing you? DOBSON. Dobson. EDGAR. Good day, then, Dobson. [_Exit_.