For the night, I sprinkle myself with dew.
On my breasts fall drops of liquid fire—
And I have breasts indeed!
They vie with glory of the southern roses—
Magnificent and firm—and they are
As white, light, and transparent as a dream.…
What is the matter, my friend? Art thou not
Thyself? Is thy little head turned?
King Dodon
(controlling himself).
There is something the matter with my liver.