Part 2 — Scene III.—Dipsychus in his own house, alone.

Di. She will come yet, I think, although she said She would go hence and die; I cannot tell. Should I have made the nation’s business wait, That I might listen to an old sad tale Uselessly iterated? Ah—ah me! I am grown weak indeed; those old black thoughts No more as servants at my bidding go, But as stern tyrants look me in the face, And mock my reason’s inefficient hand That sways to wave them hence. Serv. You rung, my lord? Di. Come here, my friend. The woman, A beggar-woman, whom six weeks ago, As you remember, you admitted to me, You may admit again if she returns. [Exit Servant. Will she return? or did she die? I searched Newspaper columns through to find a trace Of some poor corpse discovered in the Thames, Weltering in filth or stranded on the shoals. ‘You called me Pleasure once, I now am Guilt.’ Is that her voice?— ‘Once Pleasure and now Guilt—and after this Guilt evermore.’ I hear her voice again. ‘Once Guilt, but now’—I know not what it says;— Some word in some strange language, that my ears Have never heard, yet seem to long to know. ‘Once Pleasure and now Guilt, and after this’— What does she say?—...