[Watching him anxiously.] Take care. You’ll spill it.
Omar.
Never mind. It won’t be wasted. All goes to quench some poor beggar’s thirst down there [points below]. Dare say he needs it—hic.
Sáki.
[Shocked.] How can you talk so!
Omar.
[Growing argumentative in his cups.] I must abjure the balm of life, I must! I must give up wine for fear of—hic—What is it I’m to fear? Gout, I suppose. Not I!
[Takes another drink.
[Trying to take jug from him.] There, there, you’ve had enough.