THE NYMPH: I do. You bore me away, framed me in oak and tinsel, set me
above your marriage couch. Unseen, one summer eve, you kissed me in
four places. And with loving pencil you shaded my eyes, my bosom and my
shame.
BLOOM: _(Humbly kisses her long hair.)_ Your classic curves, beautiful
immortal, I was glad to look on you, to praise you, a thing of beauty,
almost to pray.
THE NYMPH: During dark nights I heard your praise.
BLOOM: _(Quickly.)_ Yes, yes. You mean that I... Sleep reveals the
worst side of everyone, children perhaps excepted. I know I fell out of
bed or rather was pushed. Steel wine is said to cure snoring. For the
rest there is that English invention, pamphlet of which I received some
days ago, incorrectly addressed. It claims to afford a noiseless,
inoffensive vent. _(He sighs.)_ ’Twas ever thus. Frailty, thy name is
marriage.
THE NYMPH: _(Her fingers in her ears.)_ And words. They are not in my
dictionary.
BLOOM: You understood them?
THE YEWS: Ssh!
THE NYMPH: _(Covers her face with her hands.)_ What have I not seen in
that chamber? What must my eyes look down on?
BLOOM: _(Apologetically.)_ I know. Soiled personal linen, wrong side up
with care. The quoits are loose. From Gibraltar by long sea long ago.
THE NYMPH: _(Bends her head.)_ Worse, worse!
BLOOM: _(Reflects precautiously.)_ That antiquated commode. It wasn’t
her weight. She scaled just eleven stone nine. She put on nine pounds
after weaning. It was a crack and want of glue. Eh? And that absurd
orangekeyed utensil which has only one handle.
_(The sound of a waterfall is heard in bright cascade.)_