Edgar: To what derived in time that pleasure forsaken in you my beloved nothing? Morose and bleak your heart had filled with pain that relieved for some time but again bears down upon you; what source be claimed for all your woe?
George: The devil spoke with a forked tongue, and from his mouth came dripping the bile of fairweather. In silence to suffer is noble but unfortunate, and exiled into me this pain which has no home.
Edgar: And what of severity? To advocate the empty has been your charge, and for sometime quite, for left is nothing traced to childhood happiness. To whom this curse be given must surely cursed be. But pitiful to see myself in you; you who gave me life and breath with clever strokes of ink.
George: But pitiful it shall not be, for deserving of my isolation I truly am. Abandon pity; see beyond these frames of worthless reality. Relative to each yet poison just the same, to recapitulate the days of woe that she who gave me life tore in promiscuity from my grasp I see in images flashing the same bleak days that lay ahead; like eyes that mock and pierce my soul.
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