ABSINTHE
Liné. Drink?
Fleury. Absinthe.
Liné. Do you—do you—excuse me—paint? [Fleury shakes his head and drinks.] You are a poet?
Fleury. Yes, my friend, I am [drinks]. I sing an answer to the siren's song. It is a ballad of such enchanting lewdness, they hold their breath to listen, and silenced they are lost. Many a dainty female thing, drunk with voluptuous ecstasy, has crept into my nets.
Liné. On what seas do you roam?
Fleury. Seas! He that mentions water in my hearing, even if he dignifies it with the name of sea, insults me gravely. The only liquid of my life is that which but a moment since made virile this poor glass, that now alas is dead. [Fleury's glass is filled, and he drinks, smacking his lips.] An ocean was not too much. Nay, all the fluid systems of the world I'd gulp within. An ocean here [putting his hand upon his stomach], a lake upon my tongue. Through every vein a burning river run, and to my brain great clouds would rise through which pale opalescent rainbows would never cease to play.
From a Play by Cavendish Morton.