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.

[_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.

[_He holds up his hand to her and leads her down from the altar and into
the centre of the stage. At whatever moment the actor finds it most
convenient, he repossesses himself of the sonnet that he had placed on
the altar. He now offers it to_ FAME.

This is my sonnet. Is it well done?

[FAME _takes it and reads it in silence, while the_ POET _watches her
rapturously._

FAME: You're a bit of all right.

DE REVES: What?

FAME: Some poet.

DE REVES: I--I--scarcely ... understand.

FAME: You're IT.

DE REVES: But ... it is not possible ... are you she that knew Homer?

FAME: Homer? Lord, yes. Blind old bat, 'e couldn't see a yard.

DE R