PRATTLE.  Lord, yes:  horned pigs, snakes with wings, anything, one of your winged horses even.  They gave me some stuff called bromide for it.  You take a rest.

DE REVES.  But my dear fellow, you don’t understand at all.  I merely said that abstract things are to a poet as near and real and visible as one of your bookmakers or barmaids.

PRATTLE.  I know.  You take a rest.

DE REVES.  Well, perhaps I will.  I’d come with you to that musical comedy you’re going to see, only I’m a bit tired after writing this; it’s a tedious job.  I’ll come another night.

PRATTLE.  How do you know I’m going to see a musical comedy?

DE REVES.  Well, where would you go? Hamlet’s on at the
Lord Chamberlain’s.  You’re not going there.

PBATTLE.  Do I look like it?

DE REVES.  No.

PRATTLE.  Well, you’re quite right.  I’m going to see “The Girl from Bedlam.”  So long.  I must push off now.  It’s getting late.  You take a rest.  Don’t add another line to that sonnet; fourteen’s quite enough.  You take a rest.  Don’t have any dinner to-night, just rest.  I was like that once myself.  So long.

DE REVES.  So long.

(Exit PRATTLE.  DE REVES returns to his table and sits down.)

Good old Dick.  He’s the same as ever.  Lord, how time passes.

(He takes his pen and his sonnet and makes a few alterations.)

Well, that’s finished.  I can’t do any more to it.

(He rises and goes to the screen; he draws back part of it and goes up to the altar.  He is about to place his sonnet reverently at the foot of the altar amongst his other verses.)

No, I will not put it there.  This one is worthy of the altar.

(He places the sonnet upon the altar itself.)

If that sonnet does not give me Fame, nothing that I have done before will give it to me, nothing that I ever will do.

(He replaces the screen and returns to his chair at the table.  Twilight is coming on.  He sits with his elbow on the table, his head on his hand, or however the actor pleases.)

Well, well.  Fancy seeing Dick again.  Well, Dick enjoys his life, so he’s no fool.  What was that he said?  “There’s no money in poetry.  You’d better chuck it.”  Ten years’ work and what have I to show for it?  The admiration of men who care for poetry, and how many of them are there?  There’s a bigger demand for smoked glasses to look at eclipses of the sun.  Why should Fame come to me?  Haven’t I given up my days for her?  That is enough to keep her away.  I am a poet; that is enough reason for her to slight me.  Proud and aloof and cold as marble, what does Fame care for us?  Yes, Dick is right.  It’s a poor game chasing illusions, hunting the intangible, pursuing dreams.  Dreams?  Why, we are ourselves dreams. (He leans back in his chair.)

                       We are such stuff
  As dreams are made on, and our little life
  Is rounded with a sleep.