EDGAR.
This author, with his charm of simple style
And close dialectic, all but proving man
An automatic series of sensations,
Has often numb'd me into apathy
Against the unpleasant jolts of this rough road
That breaks off short into the abysses--made me
A Quietist taking all things easily.
DOBSON. (_Aside_.)
There mun be summut wrong theer, Wilson, fur I doaent understan' it.
WILSON. (_Aside_.)
Nor I either, Mr. Dobson.
DOBSON. (_Scornfully_.)
An' thou doaent understan' it neither--and thou schoolmaster an' all.
EDGAR.
What can a man, then, live for but sensations,
Pleasant ones? men of old would undergo
Unpleasant for the sake of pleasant ones
Hereafter, like the Moslem beauties waiting
To clasp their lovers by the golden gates.
For me, whose cheerless Houris after death
Are Night and Silence, pleasant ones--the while--
If possible, here! to crop the flower and pass.
DOBSON.
Well, I never 'eard the likes o' that afoor.
WILSON. (_Aside_.)
But I have, Mr. Dobson. It's the old Scripture text, 'Let us eat and
drink, for to-morrow we die.' I'm sorry for it, for, tho' he never
comes to church, I thought better of him.
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