Lady S. I felt a sudden lifting of despair When Gervase came; but that was death: he brought Religion, resignation, denial, death. Oh, we must die! Conceive what failure means! Eyes of commiseration, scornful lips, Emphatic pressure of a pitying hand, Thrice gracious bows, and triple-hatted shrugs, Sugared contempt, and rancour heavy-spiced Must never greet us, Tristram: we must die. You would not have our special enemy, The whipper-in of anti-Sumnerites, In print and prattle triumph nauseously? Sir T. A change, by heaven! Are you not she who held No jargon ever writ or babbled hurt An artist or an artist's wife? Lady S. I did, Being sick and sore and wounded to the quick: Who talks of jargon says "my soul is stung". The mask is off, Sir Tristram. I'm going to die; And mean to tell the truth right on from now Until we drink that draught together. Choose: A flood of truth about the world and us, Or death immediately. Let it be death. The pain it is to me to live! Oh, Tristram! Sir T. I mean to live; and so do you. Defeat Is not so sure: at least, my own success Is certain always, though the play may fail-- As plays have failed before and will again. Lady S. Not this time: _you_ will fail: you will be hissed! Sir T. Martha! Lady S. I saw and heard: I hear it now. The long hiss from the gallery like a scourge, A skilful hiss that flicks the proper sore: You only, not the play. Your race is run; Come, be a man and die. After to-night What life is ours? First, bankruptcy: the court, Exposure of our choice extravagance, That seemed so needful to our finer souls; The sale of our belongings next, friends, foes Bidding for things that are a part of us: Oh, I would just as soon walk naked down The Strand, as have my skirts and linen tossed And fingered by the women-folk I know! Give me the poison if you will not drink; I'll die alone. Give it me, when I ask! Will you not give it me? And afterwards-- Oh afterwards! The provinces! What said Poor Warwick? I remember: "Stations, inns, "Provincial companies and theatres, "The dismallest labyrinth where every step "Stumbles at skeletons of dead ambitions!" Give me my vial, Tristram; give it me. Sir T. You know the play will fail! you hear that hiss? Lady S. Nothing is surer. Sir T. Then we must not die, For should we die we make your vision vain. Lady S. How can you jest! Oh, hateful! Oh, unkind! Sir T. Not so: I say your augury mistakes; I challenge you to live and find it false. Lady S. You know it is not false. I speak the truth, Nothing but truth! Sir T. Why, then, an intermede! _Had_ I your maidenhead? Lady S. Ah--h--h! Sir T. Tell the truth. Lady S. Unholy beast! give me the poison, quick! I want to die; I want to die alone! Sir T. That might be well; but not just now, nor here. Lady S. I wonder ... Could I drown myself? Alone? [Goes out] Sir T. Salerne! Salerne! [Re-enter Salerne.]