He is stolid over his cups--which is somewhat disappointing.

No matter; he can be shaken into enthusiasm.
"I care not," I cry, "for man or devil, Polyphemus.
_'Que je suis grand ici! mon amour de feu Va de pair cette nuit avec celui de Dieu!'_ You may say that it's wrong, that the first line is a syllable short, and that Triboulet said _'colere'_ instead of _amour_.

You always were a dry-as-dust, pedantic prig.

But I say _amour_-love, do you hear?
I'll translate, if you like: 'Now am I mighty, and my love of fire To-night goes even with a god's desire.' Yes; I'll be a poet even though you do scratch my wrist with your hind claws, Polyphemus." There! Empty your milk-jug and I will empty my bottle.

The wine smells of hyacinth.