st always gives an added age to wine.
This is right Xeres. Hast been in Spain?

_Dimsdell._ Nay, but the wine hath. I feel its warmth.

_Roger._ Truly, it is a grand inquisitor;
'Twill search each petty heresy that taints
Thy blood, and burn it to a cinder.

_Dimsdell._ How many leagues it came to serve my need.

_Roger._ Aye, a thousand, and a thousand more!

_Dimsdell._ I would not go so far for it just now,
For through my limbs there creeps a lang'rous ease
Like that which doth precede deep slumber.

_Roger._ Rest here upon this bench. [_Dimsdell sits, half reclining._
Give way unto your drowsiness; it is
Not sleep, but rest and relaxation. There!
I'll keep you company.

_Dimsdell._ Do.

_Roger._ [_Pouring wine and drinking._] This wine is liquid gold.
I quaff to your good health and ease of mind.
This is good wine. It warms my chilly blood
With all the dreamy heat of Spain. I hear
The clack of th' castinet and th' droning twang
Of stringed instruments; while there before
Mine eyes brown, yielding beauties dance in time
To the pulsing music of a saraband!
And yet there is a flavor of the sea, [_Sipping wine._
The long-drawn heaving of the ocean wave,
The gentle cradling of a tropic tide;
Its native golden sun--I fear you sleep?
Or do the travels of the wine so rock
Your soul that self is lost in revery?
Why, man, dream not too much of placid bliss;
Nor wine, nor man, can reach this clear perfection
Until they pass the rack of thunder and
Of hurricane.--'Tis on us now! Awake! [_Shouting in Dimsdell's ear._
My friend, awake! Dost thou not hear the storm?
Oh! how it shrieks and whistles through the shrouds!
The awful guns of heaven boom in our ears--
Nay, that was the mainsail gone by the board,
Flapping with cannon roar.
You do not follow me. O, come, I say!
This is no sermon. You cannot be asleep,
Yet feign you are to cheat me of my story.
Wake up, my friend. You carry the jest too far.

_Roger cautiously shakes Dimsdell._

So soon! So sound! [_Looks around._
I fear you are not easy; thus. That's better.
Your pardon, sir, your collar's much too tight.
Now will I steal his hidden mystery,
And learn the secret of his lengthened pain;
Cure him and gain great honor. To think a man
Would case himself in buttons like an armour!
Now, shirt----
Merciful God! wha