And marked the gems in Cassiopea’s hair— Together have we heard the nightingale Waste the exuberant music of her throat, And lull the flustering breezes into calm— Together have we emulously sung Of Hyacinthus, Daphne, and the rest, Whose mortal weeds Apollo changed to flowers. Also from him I have derived much aid In golden ducats, which I fain would pay Back with extremest usury, were but Mine own convenience equal to my wish. Moreover, of his poems he hath sold Two full editions of a thousand each, While mine remain neglected on the shelves! Courage, Firmilian! for the hour has come When thou canst know atrocity indeed, By smiting him that was thy dearest friend. And think not that he dies a vulgar death— ’Tis poetry demands the sacrifice! Yet not to him be that revealment made. He must not know with what a loving hand— With what fraternal charity of heart I do devote him to the infernal gods! I dare not spare him one particular pang, Nor make the struggle briefer! Hush—he comes. HAVERILLO, _emerging from the staircase_. How now, Firmilian!—I am scant of breath; These steps have pumped the ether from my lungs, And made the bead-drops cluster on my brow. A strange, unusual rendezvous is this— An old saint’s pillar, which no human foot Hath scaled this hundred years! FIRMILIAN. Aye—it is strange! HAVERILLO. ’Faith, sir, the bats considered it as such: They seem to flourish in the column here, And are not over courteous. Ha! I’m weary: I shall sleep sound to-night. FIRMILIAN. You _shall_ sleep sound! HAVERILLO. Either there is an echo in the place, Or your voice is sepulchral. FIRMILIAN. Seems it so? HAVERILLO. Come, come, Firmilian—Be once more a man! Leave off these childish tricks, and vapours bred Out of a too much pampered fantasy. What are we, after all, but mortal men, Who eat, drink, sleep, need raiment and the like, As well as any jolterhead alive? Trust me, my friend, we cannot feed on dreams, Or stay the hungry cravings of the maw By mere poetic banquets. FIRMILIAN.