STEPHEN (Grimacing with head back， laughs loudly， clapping himself) Great success of laughing. Angels much prostitutes like and holy apostles big damn ruffians. Demimondaines nicely handsome sparkling of diamonds very amiable cos turned. Or do you are fond better what belongs they moderns pleasure turpitude of old mans？ (He points about him with grotesque gestures which Lynch and the whores reply to.) Caoutchouc statue woman reversible or lifesize tompeeptoms virgins nudities very lesbic the kiss five ten times. Enter gentlemen to see in mirrors every positions trapezes all that machine there besides also if desire act awfully bestial butcher's boy pollutes in warm veal liver or omelette on the belly pièce de Shakespeare.
BELLA (Clapping her belly， sinks back on the sofa with a shout of laughter.) An omelette on the... Ho！ ho！ ho！ ho！... Omelette on the...
STEPHEN (Mincingly.) I love you， Sir darling. Speak you englishman tongue for double entente cordiale. O yes， mon loup. How much cost？ Waterloo. Watercloset. (He ceases suddenly and holds up a forefinger.)BELLA (Laughing.) Omelette...
THE WHORES (Laughing.) Encore！ Encore！
STEPHEN Mark me. I dreamt of a watermelon.
ZOE Go abroad and love a foreign lady.
LYNCH Across the world for a wife.
FLORRY Dreams go by contraries.
STEPHEN (Extending his arms.) It was here. Street of harlots. In Serpentine Avenue Beelzebub showed me her， a fubsy widow. Where's the red carpet spread？
BLOOM (Approaching Stephen.) Look.
STEPHEN No， I flew. My foes beneath me. And ever shall be. World without end. (He cries.) Pater！ Free！
BLOOM I say， look...
STEPHEN Break my spirit， will he？ O merde alors！ (He cries， his vulture talons sharpened.) Hola！ Hillyho！
(Simon Dedalus' voice hilloes in answer， somewhat sleepy but ready.)SIMON That's all right. (He swoops uncertainly through the air， wheeling， uttering cries of heartening， on strong ponderous buzzard wings.) Ho， boy！ Are you going to win？ Hoop！ Pschatt！ Stable with those halfcastes. Wouldn't let them within the bawl of an ass. Head up！ Keep our flag flying！ An eagle gules volant in a field argent displayed. Ulster king at arms！ hai hoop！ (He makes the beagle's call giving tongue.) Bulbul！ Burblblbrurblbl！ Hai， boy！
(The fronds and spaces of the wallpaper file rapidly across country. A stout fox drawn from covert， brush pointed， having buried his grandmother， runs swift for the open， bright-eyed， seeking badger earth， under the leaves. The pack of staghounds follows， nose to the ground， sniffing their quarry， beaglebaying， burblbrblng to be blooded. Ward Union huntsmen and huntswomen live with them， hot for a kill. From Six Mile Point， Flathouse， Nine Mile Stone follow the footpeople with knotty sticks， salmongaffs， lassos， flockmasters with stockwhips， bearbaiters with tomtoms， toreadors with bullswords， grey negroes waving torches. The crowd bowls of dicers， crown and anchor players， thimbleriggers， broadsmen. Crows and touts， hoarse bookies in high wizard hats clamour deafeningly.)THE CROWD
Card of the races. Racing card！
Ten to one the field！
Tommy on the clay here！
Tommy on the clay！
Ten to one bar one.
Ten to one bar one.
Try your luck on spinning Jenny！
Ten to one bar one！
Sell the monkey， boys！
Sell the monkey！
I'll give ten to one！
Ten to one bar one！
(A dark horse， riderless， bolts like a phantom past the winningpost， his mane moonfoaming， his eyeballs stars. The field follows， a bunch of bucking mounts. Skeleton horses： Sceptre， Maximum the Second， Zinfandel， the Duke of Westminsters Shotover， Repulse， the Duke of Beauforts' Ceylon， prix de Paris. Dwarfs ride them， rusty armoured， leaping， leaping in their saddles. in a drizzle of rain， on a broken-winded isabelle nag， Cock of the North， the favourite， honey cap， green jacket， orange sleeves， Garrett Deasy up， gripping the reins， a hockey stick at the ready. His nag， stumbling on whitegaitered feet， jogs along the rocky road.)THE ORANGE LODGES (Jeering.) Get down and push， mister. lap！ You'll be home the night！
GARRETT DEASY (Bolt upright， his nailscraped face plastered with postage stamps， brandishes his hockeystick， his blue eyes flashing in the prism of the chandelier as his mount lopes by at a schooling gallop.) Per vias rectas！
(A yoke of buckets leopards all over him and his rearing nag， a torrent of mutton broth with dancing coins of carrots， barley， onions， turnips， potatoes.)THE GREEN LODGES Soft day， sir John！ Soft day， your honour！
(Private Carr， Private Compton and Cissy Caffrey pass beneath the windows， singing in discord.)STEPHEN Hark！ Our friend， noise in the street！
ZOE (Holds up her hand.) Stop！
PRIVATE CARR， PRIVATE COMPTON and CISSY CAFFREYYet I've a sort a
Yorkshire relish for...
ZOE That's me. (She claps her hands.) Dance！ Dance！ (She runs to the pianola.) Who has twopence？
BLOOM Who'll.
LYNCH (Handing her coins.) Here.
STEPHEN (Cracking his fingers impatiently.) Quick！ Quick！ Where's my augur's rod？ (He runs to the piano and takes his ashplant， beating his foot in tripudium.)ZOE (Turns the drumhandle.) There.
(She drops two pennies in the slot. Glow pink and violet lights start forth. The drum turns purring in low hesitation waltz. Professor Goodwin， in a bowknotted periwig， in court dress， wearing a stained inverness cape， bent in two from incredible age， totters across the room， his hands fluttering. He sits tinily on the piano stool and lifts and beats handless sticks of arms on the keyboard， nodding with damsels grace， his bowknot bobbing.)ZOE (Twirls around herself heeltapping.) Dance. Anybody here for there？ Who'll dance？