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.
[_He is silent for a while. Suddenly he lifts his head._
My room at Eton, Dick said. An untidy mess.
[_As he lifts his head and says these words, twilight gives place to
broad daylight, merely as a hint that the author of the play may have
been mistaken, and the whole thing may have been no more than a poet's
dream._
So it was, and it's an untidy mess there (_looking at screen_) too.
Dick's right. I'll tidy it up. I'll burn the whole damned heap,
[_He advances impetuously towards the screen._
every damned poem that I was ever fool enough to waste my time on.
[_He pushes back the screen._ FAME _in a Greek dress with a long golden
trumpet in her hand is seen standing motionless on the altar like a
marble goddess._
So ... you have come!
[_For a while he stands thunderstruck. Then he approaches the altar._
Divine fair lady, you have come.
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