Chatterton. My life, and it is yours.
Bertha. No, not your life;
But that you nobly live.
Chatterton. I'll try, I'll try.
Bertha. Give me some token; let it be a verse
In your own hand.
Chatterton. I have none worthy you.
Bertha. Have you not one among your papers there?
I know 'tis much to ask.
Chatterton. No: it is yours.
[Taking up a sheet of paper.]
On melancholy--that will scarcely do.
Bertha. Read it to me, and I shall be the judge.