Burke's！ Outflings my lord Stephen， giving the cry， and a tag and bobtail of all them after， cockerel， jackanapes， welsher， pilldoctor， punctual Bloom at heels with a universal grabbing at headgear， ashplants， bilbos， Panama hats and scabbards， Zermatt alpenstocks and what not. A dedale of lusty youth， noble every student there. Nurse Callan taken aback in the hallway cannot stay them nor smiling surgeon coming downstairs with news of placentation ended， a full pound if a milligramme. They hark him on. The door！ It is open？ Ha？ They are out tumultuously， off for a minute's race， all bravely legging it， Burke's of Denzille and Holles their ulterior goal. Dixon follows， giving them sharp language but raps out an oath， he too， and on. Bloom stays with nurse a thought to send a kind word to happy mother and nurseling up there. Doctor Diet and Doctor Quiet. Looks she too not other now？ Ward of watching in Horne's house has told its tale in that washedout pallor. Them all being gone， a glance of motherwit helping he whispers close in going： Madam， when comes the storkbird for thee？
The air without is impregnated with raindew moisture， life essence celestial， glistering on Dublin stone there under starshiny coelum. God's air， the Allfather's air， scintillant circumambient cessile air. Breathe it deep into thee. By heaven， Theodore Purefoy， thou hast done a doughty deed and no botch！ Thou art， I vow， the remarkablest progenitor barring none in this chaffering allincluding most farraginous chronicle. Astounding！ In her lay a Godframed Godgiven preformed possibility which thou hast fructified with thy modicum of 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 Zarathusthra？ Deine kuh Trübsal melkest Du. Nun trinkst Du die süsse 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 guzzlingden， 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 family？ Where the Henry Nevil's sawbones and ole clo？ Sorra one o me knows. Hurrah there， Dix！ Forward 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 us， dear sir？ No hentrusion in life. Lou heap good man. Allee samee this bunch. En avant， mes enfants！ Fire away number one on the gun. Burke's！ Thence they advanced five parasangs. Slattery's mounted foot where's that bleeding awfur？ Parson Steve， apostates' creed！ No， no. Mulligan！ Abaft there！ Shove ahead. Keep a watch on the clock. Chuckingout time. Mullee！ What's on you？ Ma mère m'a mariée. British Beatitudes！ Ratamplan Digidi Boum Boum. Ayes have it. To be printed and bound at the Druiddrum press by two designing females. Calf covers of pissedon green. word in art shades. Most beautiful book come out of Ireland my time. Silentium！ Get a spurt on. Tention. Proceed to nearest canteen and there annex liquor stores. March！ Tramp， tramp the boys are (attitudes！) parching. Beer， beef， business， bibles， bulldogs， battleships， buggery and bishops. Whether on the scaffold high. Beerbeef trample the bibles. When for Irelandear. Trample the trampellers. Thunderation！ Keep the durned millingtary step. We fall. Bishops' boosebox. Halt！ Heave to. Rugger. Scrum in. No touch kicking. Wow， my tootsies！ You hurt？ Most amazingly sorry！