You’re my friend—­
What a thing friendship is, world without end! 
How it gives the heart and soul a stir-up
        As if somebody broached you a glorious runlet,
        And poured out, all lovelily, sparklingly, sunlit,
Our green Moldavia, the streaky syrup,
Cotnar as old as the time of the Druids—­
Friendship may match with that monarch of fluids; 840
Each supples a dry brain, fills you its ins-and-outs,
Gives your life’s hour-glass a shake when the thin sand doubts
Whether to run on or stop short, and guarantees
Age is not all made of stark sloth and arrant ease. 
I have seen my little lady once more,
        Jacynth, the Gipsy, Berold, and the rest of it,
For to me spoke the Duke, as I told you before;
        I always wanted to make a clean breast of it: 
And now it is made-why, my heart’s blood, that went trickle,
        Trickle, but anon, in such muddy driblets, 850
Is pumped up brisk now, through the main ventricle,
        And genially floats me about the giblets.

I’ll tell you what I intend to do: 
I must see this fellow his sad life through—­
He is our Duke, after all,
And I, as he says, but a serf and thrall. 
My father was born here, and I inherit
        His fame, a chain he bound his son with;
Could I pay in a lump I should prefer it,
        But there’s no mine to blow up and get done with:  860
So, I must stay till the end of the chapter. 
For, as to our middle-age-manners-adapter,
Be it a thing to be glad on or sorry on,
Some day or other, his head in a morion
And breast in a hauberk, his heels he’ll kick up,
Slain by an onslaught fierce of hiccup. 
And then, when red doth the sword of our Duke rust,
And its leathern sheath lie o’ergrown with a blue crust,
Then I shall scrape together my earnings;
        For, you see, in the churchyard Jacynth reposes, 870
        And our children all went the way of the roses: 
It’s a long lane that knows no turnings. 
One needs but little tackle to travel in;
        So, just one stout cloak shall I indue: 
And for a staff, what beats the javelin
        With which his boars my father pinned you? 
And then, for a purpose you shall hear presently,
        Taking some Cotnar, a tight plump skinful,
I shall go journeying, who but I, pleasantly! 
        Sorrow is vain and despondency sinful. 880
What’s a man’s age?  He must hurry more, that’s all;
        Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold: 
        When we mind labour, then only, we’re too old—­
What age had Methusalem when he begat Saul? 
And at last, as its haven some buffeted ship sees,
     (Come all the way from the north-parts with sperm oil)
        I hope to get safely out of the turmoil
And arrive one day at the land of the Gipsies,
And find my lady, or hear the last news of her