It were wisdom not to drink when one's tank will not hold the drink." While we talked Pons was gathering to my bedside my clothes for the day.
"Drink on, my master," he answered.

"It won't hurt you.

You'll die with a sound stomach." "You mean mine is an iron-lined stomach ?" I wilfully misunderstood him.
"I mean--" he began with a quick peevishness, then broke off as he realized my teasing and with a pout of his withered lips draped my new sable cloak upon a chair-back.

"Eight hundred ducats," he sneered.

"A thousand goats and a hundred fat oxen in a coat to keep you warm.