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. Enter Mrs. Angell. Bertha. O father, you are cruel. Mrs. Angell. [To Burgum.] Pardon, sir. There is a gentleman below, who says He must see you at once. Shall he come up? Burgum. No, no: I'll go to him. 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? Bertha. I really do not know. Chatterton. No, no, of course: My head is heavy. Bertha. O, you do need aid! 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. Bertha. I pity you the more: Imaginary woes are real to him Whom they oppress, and hardest to dispel; And if you truly do deserve your fate, Then have you more to bear. Chatterton. You came in time; To-morrow--to-morrow might have been too late. Bertha. My father soon will come, and I would ask-- Chatterton. My life, and it is yours. Bertha. No, not your life; But that you nobly live. Chatterton. I'll try, I'll try. Bertha. Give me some token; let it be a verse In your own hand. Chatterton. I have none worthy you. Bertha. Have you not one among your papers there? I know 'tis much to ask. Chatterton. No: it is yours. [Taking up a sheet of paper.] On melancholy--that will scarcely do. Bertha. Read it to me, and I shall be the judge. Chatterton. [Reads.]