"Then be gay," resumed Blachevelle.
"I agree to that," responded Tholomyes.
And, refilling his glass, he rose.
"Glory to wine!
Nunc te, Bacche, canam!
Pardon me ladies; that is Spanish.
And the proof of it, senoras, is this:
like people, like cask.
The arrobe of Castile contains sixteen litres; the cantaro of Alicante, twelve; the almude of the Canaries, twenty-five; the cuartin of the Balearic Isles, twenty-six; the boot of Tzar Peter, thirty.
Long live that Tzar who was great, and long live his boot, which was still greater!
Ladies, take the advice of a friend; make a mistake in your neighbor if you see fit.The property of love is to err.
A love affair is not made to crouch down and brutalize itself like an English serving-maid who has callouses on her knees from scrubbing.
It is not made for that; it errs gayly, our gentle love.
It has been said, error is human; I say, error is love.
Ladies, I idolize you all.
O Zephine, O Josephine, face more than irregular, you would be charming were you not all askew.
You have the air of a pretty face upon which some one has sat down by mistake.
As for Favourite, O nymphs and muses! one day when Blachevelle was crossing the gutter in the Rue Guerin-Boisseau, he espied a beautiful girl with white stockings well drawn up, which displayed her legs.
This prologue pleased him, and Blachevelle fell in love.
The one he loved was Favourite.