Bloom:  (Pawing the heather abjectly) O, I have been a perfect pig.  Enemas too I have administered.  One third of a pint of quassia to which add a tablespoonful of rocksalt.  Up the fundament.  With Hamilton Long’s syringe, the ladies’ friend.

The nymph:  In my presence.  The powderpuff. (She blushes and makes A knee) And the rest!

Bloom:  (Dejected) Yes.  Peccavi!  I have paid homage on that living altar where the back changes name. (With sudden fervour) For why should the dainty scented jewelled hand, the hand that rules ...?

(Figures wind SERPENTING in slow Woodland pattern around the TREESTEMS, COOEEING)

The voice of Kitty:  (In the Thicket) Show us one of them cushions.

The voice of Florry:  Here.

(A grouse wings clumsily through the underwood.)

The voice of Lynch:  (In the Thicket) Whew!  Piping hot!

The voice of Zoe:  (From the Thicket) Came from a hot place.

The voice of Virag:  (A BIRDCHIEF, BLUESTREAKED and feathered in war
panoply with his assegai, striding through A crackling Canebrake over
beechmast and acorns) Hot!  Hot!  Ware Sitting Bull!

Bloom:  It overpowers me.  The warm impress of her warm form.  Even to sit where a woman has sat, especially with divaricated thighs, as though to grant the last favours, most especially with previously well uplifted white sateen coatpans.  So womanly, full.  It fills me full.

The waterfall: 

    Phillaphulla Poulaphouca
    Poulaphouca Poulaphouca.

The YEWS:  Ssh!  Sister, speak!

The nymph:  (Eyeless, in nun’s white habit, coif and HUGEWINGED wimple, softly, with remote eyes) Tranquilla convent.  Sister Agatha.  Mount Carmel.  The apparitions of Knock and Lourdes.  No more desire. (She reclines her head, sighing) Only the ethereal.  Where dreamy creamy gull waves o’er the waters dull.

(Bloom half rises.  His back TROUSERBUTTON snaps.)

The button:  Bip!

(Two sluts of the Coombe dance RAINILY by, SHAWLED, yelling flatly.)

The sluts: 

    O, Leopold lost the pin of his drawers
    He didn’t know what to do,
    To keep it up,
    To keep it up.