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Ulysses

Low’s yard in Prussia street. I question with you there,
says he. More like ‘tis the hoose or the timber tongue. Mr
Stephen, a little moved but very handsomely told him no
such matter and that he had dispatches from the emperor’s

chief tailtickler thanking him for the hospitality, that was
sending over Doctor Rinderpest, the bestquoted
cowcatcher in all Muscovy, with a bolus or two of physic
to take the bull by the horns. Come, come, says Mr
Vincent, plain dealing. He’ll find himself on the horns of a
dilemma if he meddles with a bull that’s Irish, says he. Irish
by name and irish by nature, says Mr Stephen, and he sent
the ale purling about, an Irish bull in an English
chinashop. I conceive you, says Mr Dixon. It is that same
bull that was sent to our island by farmer Nicholas, the
bravest cattlebreeder of them all, with an emerald ring in
his nose. True for you, says Mr Vincent cross the table,
and a bullseye into the bargain, says he, and a plumper and
a portlier bull, says he, never shit on shamrock. He had
horns galore, a coat of cloth of gold and a sweet smoky
breath coming out of his nostrils so that the women of our
island, leaving doughballs and rollingpins, followed after
him hanging his bulliness in daisychains. What for that,
says Mr Dixon, but before he came over farmer Nicholas
that was a eunuch had him properly gelded by a college of

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