Sir T. To me it means the element I use, For church and stage are dramaturgy both: The one inspires a happy will to death; The other floods the soul of man with life. If you must carp against the stage, attack The usury that leads it on a chain, Exploiting all that's base: there's loads of gold In flattered meannesses; the public pays To be degraded: easiest escape Is downward to the abyss; the greasy plank Requires no effort. Groom. Tristram of the times, The creature of infectious decadence That triumphs everywhere: a harvest home Of mellow, putrid autumns; afternoon And twilight of the state, the church, the stage. By heaven and earth, the syndicated shows That pay the big percentages are sweet Beside a gelded Shakespeare, and the priest Pronouncing benediction from the stalls! Sir T. The decadence is everywhere?--perhaps; But how should that concern the decadents? Their function is to hasten the decay. It has been held, it has been proved that life Is but the decadence of matter, soul The decadence of life; now, soul itself, The parasite that drains the sap of life, Begins _its_ decadence. But what of that? We must go through with it.--Come, will you play Prince Troilus, boy; or, flatly, are you drunk? Groom. [Drinks] I cannot tell; perhaps: I love to drink: The dingy world becomes a crystal orb Revealing truth when wine enlightens me-- Truth like a sumptuous vision in a bell Of dew, a magic bubble blown to film That melts and bursts, a passion of delight, A shimmering womb of diverse stains and deep. By Bacchus and his panthers, I believe A great career of drunkenness were worth A man's ambition! Alcohol's as good As law, the church, the army, or the stage! Henceforth my business and my art will be To drink and to be drunken. [Drinks] Odours faint Of pallid wayside roses, heavier scents Of roses of the garden, deeper snares Of bowls of roses ripe and faded, bowls Of leaves of roses, faded, dark and sweet, The last aroma! Clusters of the vine, Mature, deep-bosomed, umbered with the sun; Old dregs and essences of happiness, Of women's pulses wound like springs of steel, Of sanguine wars, of sinews, swords, of hearts As hard as nether millstones, burning love Like molten adamant! Oh, heaven and hell Are wed and wanton in a cup of wine, Bouquet and ichor of eternity! I shall go out and cry it in the streets. Sir T. [To the Actors in the wings] Go with him to his room. Let him drink on Until he sleeps. That is the end of this. [Groom goes out, accompanied by the Actors.] Lady S. [Coming down quickly] And this the end for us, Sir Tristram. Drink. Sir T. [Taking the vial which Lady Sumner offers] Are you insane? You have not drunk?