THE NYMPH: (Coyly, through parting fingers.) There? In the open air?
THE YEWS: (Sweeping downward.) Sister, yes. And on our virgin sward.
THE WATERFALL:
Poulaphouca Poulaphouca
Phoucaphouca Phoucaphouca.
THE NYMPH: (With wide fingers.) O, infamy!
BLOOM: I was precocious. Youth. The fauna. I sacrificed to the god of the forest. The flowers that bloom in the spring. It was pairing time. Capillary attraction is a natural phenomenon. Lotty Clarke, flaxenhaired, I saw at her night toilette through illclosed curtains with poor papa’s operaglasses: The wanton ate grass wildly. She rolled downhill at Rialto bridge to tempt me with her flow of animal spirits. She climbed their crooked tree and I... A saint couldn’t resist it. The demon possessed me. Besides, who saw?
(Staggering Bob, a whitepolled calf, thrusts a ruminating head with humid nostrils through the foliage.)
STAGGERING BOB: (Large teardrops rolling from his prominent eyes, snivels.) Me. Me see.
BLOOM: Simply satisfying a need I... (With pathos.) No girl would when I went girling. Too ugly. They wouldn’t play...
(High on Ben Howth through rhododendrons a nannygoat passes, plumpuddered, buttytailed, dropping currants.)