Sir T. I understand. We know each other, Warwick Groom and I. No legendary friendship ever wove The lives of men in such a gallant web As ours displayed: the secrets of our hearts Were interchanged like goodly gifts that made The giver and receiver ache with joy: Our thoughts, our deeds, our sins were known and loved Of either; nothing irksome, trivial, dull Could happen day or night to him or me Since telling of it gave it import, grave Or humorous, subtle, sweet, or sad. Too well, Too infinitely well we knew each other! Grudge, longing, foible, vanity, conceit, Ambition, terror, cowardice, fancy, whim Revealed themselves in either's consciousness Beyond the scope and verge of comely minds, That there might still be something to confide, Some proof of new affection: once, at least, Two men should know each other inside out! To cut and carve a specimen, a corpse, A limbless, headless trunk, malodorous, foul, O'er-hacked, o'er-handled by anatomists, Tyros and demonstrators, makes a job Cleaner than knowing truly inside out The heart of man, the actual heart of man, Not in a general mass of studies culled From books, but in particular, one's friend. Had fortune not divided us I know Both had gone mad. He hates the thought of me, As I the thought of him--the natural end Of every intimacy pushed outside The limit. Souls are clad and should be seen In vestments only: things and thoughts there are We must not think: forbidden is the tree Of knowledge still to those that love themselves, Their friends, their art, their people and the world. This is a righteous hate in him and me. Lady S. It desolates my heart to think it true! What shall I say to him? Sir T. Give him some food, Some drink, some money. Lady S. But he comes with news! Oh, I forgot; you moved me so! Your Troilus, It seems, is ill. Sir T. Ah; so. He looked consumptive. The understudy is letter-perfect. Lady S. Yes; But think: the first of such a play--so harsh, So questionable. Sir T. Interest follows Troilus: This is a blow; but not a deadly one. Lady S. And fortune's blows may prove caresses. Warwick Can play the part. Sir T. Groom? In my theatre? Martha! Lady S. I once had leave to counsel you, though now You shun me, Tristram---- Sir T. Martha! Lady S. Yes, you do; And take the mind of every one but me. Tristram, you know my heart. Is it unclean Like Warwick Groom's? You loved me once: has love Fermented, like your friendship, into hate? Sir T. Should not a woman's heart escape the probe Men search each other with, the fathom line, The dredge, the sunken shaft that brings to light No pearls of price, no gems, nor golden ore, But wreck and rust, drowned hopes and dead men's bones?