f man's work. Cleave to her!
Serve! Toil on, labour like a very bandog and let scholarment and all
Malthusiasts go hang. Thou art all their daddies, Theodore. Art drooping
under thy load, bemoiled with butcher's bills at home and ingots (not
thine!) in the countinghouse? Head up! For every newbegotten thou shalt
gather thy homer of ripe wheat. See, thy fleece is drenched. Dost envy
Darby Dullman there with his Joan? A canting jay and a rheumeyed
curdog is all their progeny. Pshaw, I tell thee! He is a mule, a dead
gasteropod, without vim or stamina, not worth a cracked kreutzer.
Copulation without population! No, say I! Herod's slaughter of the
innocents were the truer name. Vegetables, forsooth, and sterile
cohabitation! Give her beefsteaks, red, raw, bleeding! She is a hoary
pandemonium of ills, enlarged glands, mumps, quinsy, bunions, hayfever,
bedsores, ringworm, floating kidney, Derbyshire neck, warts, bilious
attacks, gallstones, cold feet, varicose veins. A truce to threnes and
trentals and jeremies and all such congenital defunctive music! Twenty
years of it, regret them not. With thee it was not as with many that
will and would and wait and never--do. Thou sawest thy America, thy
lifetask, and didst charge to cover like the transpontine bison. How
saith Zarathustra? _Deine Kuh Truebsal melkest Du. Nun Trinkst Du die
suesse Milch des Euters_. See! it displodes for thee in abundance. Drink,
man, an udderful! Mother's milk, Purefoy, the milk of human kin, milk
too of those burgeoning stars overhead rutilant in thin rainvapour,
punch milk, such as those rioters will quaff in their guzzling den, milk
of madness, the honeymilk of Canaan's land. Thy cow's dug was tough,
what? Ay, but her milk is hot and sweet and fattening. No dollop this
but thick rich bonnyclaber. To her, old patriarch! Pap! _Per deam
Partulam et Pertundam nunc est bibendum_!

All off for a buster, armstrong, hollering down the street. Bonafides.
Where you slep las nigh? Timothy of the battered naggin. Like ole
Billyo. Any brollies or gumboots in the fambly? Where the Henry Nevil's
sawbones and ole clo? Sorra one o' me knows. Hurrah there, Dix! Forward
to the ribbon counter. Where's Punch? All serene. Jay, look at the
drunken minister coming out of the maternity hospal! _Benedicat vos
omnipotens Deus, Pater et Filius_. A make, mister. The Denzille lane
boys. Hell, blast ye! Scoot. Righto, Isaacs, shove em out of the
bleeding limelight. Yous join uz,