“Ay, my lord demi-gods,” said Babbalanja, drop by drop refilling his goblet.  “These suppers are all very fine, very pleasant, and merry.  But we pay for them roundly.  Every thing, my good lords, has its price, from a marble to a world.  And easier of digestion, and better for both body and soul, are a half-haunch of venison and a gallon of mead, taken under the sun at meridian, than the soft bridal breast of a partridge, with some gentle negus, at the noon of night!”

“No lie that!” said Mohi.  “Beshrew me, in no well-appointed mansion doth the pantry lie adjoining the sleeping chamber.  A good thought:  I’ll fill up, and ponder on it.”

“Let not Azzageddi get uppermost again, Babbalanja,” cried Media.  “Your goblet is only half-full.”

“Permit it to remain so; my lord.  For whoso takes much wine to bed with him, has a bedfellow, more restless than a somnambulist.  And though Wine be a jolly blade at the board, a sulky knave is he under a blanket.  I know him of old.  Yet, your Highness, for all this, to many a Mardian, suppers are still better than dinners, at whatever cost purchased Forasmuch, as many have more leisure to sup, than dine.  And though you demi-gods, may dine at your ease; and dine it out into night:  and sit and chirp over your Burgundy, till the morning larks join your crickets, and wed matins to vespers;—­far otherwise, with us plebeian mortals.  From our dinners, we must hie to our anvils:  and the last jolly jorum evaporates in a cark and a care.”

“Methinks he relapses,” said Abrazza.

“It waxes late,” said Mohi; “your Highnesses, is it not time to break up?”

“No, no!”, cried Abrazza; “let the day break when it will:  but no breakings for us.  It’s only midnight.  This way with the wine; pass it along, my dear Media.  We are young yet, my sweet lord; light hearts and heavy purses; short prayers and long rent-rolls.  Pass round the Tokay!  We demi-gods have all our old age for a dormitory.  Come!—­Round and round with the flagons!  Let them disappear like mile-stones on a race-course!”

“Ah!” murmured Babbalanja, holding his full goblet at arm’s length on the board, “not thus with the hapless wight, born with a hamper on his back, and blisters in his palms.—­Toil and sleep—­sleep and toil, are his days and his nights; he goes to bed with a lumbago, and wakes with the rheumatics;—­I know what it is;—­he snatches lunches, not dinners, and makes of all life a cold snack!  Yet praise be to Oro, though to such men dinners are scarce worth the eating; nevertheless, praise Oro again, a good supper is something.  Off jack-boots; nay, off shirt, if you will, and go at it.  Hurrah! the fagged day is done:  the last blow is an echo.  Twelve long hours to sunrise!  And would it were an Antarctic night, and six months to to-morrow!  But, hurrah! the very bees have their hive, and after a day’s weary wandering, hie home to their honey.  So they stretch out their stiff legs, rub their lame elbows, and putting their tired right arms in a sling, set the others to fetching and carrying from dishes to dentals, from foaming flagon to the demijohn which never pours out at the end you pour in.  Ah! after all, the poorest devil in Mardi lives not in vain.  There’s a soft side to the hardest oak-plank in the world!”