Let's have the amber cups: so: pass them round;--fill all! Taji! my demi-god, up heart! Old Mohi, my babe, may you live ten thousand centuries! Ah! this way you mortals have of dying out at three score years and ten, is but a craven habit.
So, Babbalanja! may you never die.

Yoomy! my sweet poet, may you live to sing to me in Paradise.

Ha, ha! would that we floated in this glorious stuff, instead of this pestilent brine .-- Hark ye! were I to make a Mardi now, I'd have every continent a huge haunch of venison; every ocean a wine-vat! I'd stock every cavern with choice old spirits, and make three surplus suns to ripen the grapes all the year round.

Let's drink to that!--Brimmers! So: may the next Mardi that's made, be one entire grape; and mine the squeezing!" "Look, look! my lord," cried Yoomy, "what a glorious shore we pass." Sallying out into the high golden noon, with golden-beaming goblets suspended, we gazed.
"This must be Kolumbo of the south," said Mohi.
It was a long, hazy reach of land; piled up in terraces, traced here and there with rushing streams, that worked up gold dust alluvian, and seemed to flash over pebbled diamonds.

Heliotropes, sun-flowers, marigolds gemmed, or starred the violet meads, and vassal-like, still sunward bowed their heads.