Chatterton. She's kind. Heaven grant her happiness. [Throwing up purse.] This yellow god Distributes favors with a curious hand. The kings of his creation are so low Of forehead that their crowns sit on their eyebrows. They have, for motley fools, wise men--so called (Not wise enough to live within their age), Who feed upon the bones their masters throw Beneath the table. 'Tis the voice of fate, Exclusion's cruel law, that he who carries In the clouds his head shall stumble on the earth. Here, take the trash--I am no pauper yet. [Gives purse to her.] Mrs. Angell. [Aside.] The boy is surely crazed. Chatterton. There, go at once. I cannot, with these artificial words, Show the brain busy, and keep out the thoughts That knock to be admitted. No more--go! Mrs. Angell. [With emotion.] I meant not to offend. Chatterton. I am too rude. I needs must take a tenderer farewell. Mrs. Angell. Farewell? Why how you talk! You will not leave? Chatterton. I may, perhaps. Mrs. Angell. Where are you going, sir? Chatterton. To sea; but vex me not at present, please; And, should my mother come to you, tell her How hard I worked; but 'twas of no use--no use. Good-by, dear Mrs. Angell. [Kisses her.] Mrs. Angell. I'll leave the lamp. Chatterton. No: take it--'tis too brilliant. [Lights candle and hands lamp to her.] Mrs. Angell. You will feel Much better in the morning. Chatterton. Pray I may. Mrs. Angell. [Aside.] I'll ask my husband what is best to do. [Exit Mrs. Angell with lamp. Lights lowered.]