Bloom:  (Coldly) You have broken the spell.  The last straw.  If there were only ethereal where would you all be, postulants and novices?  Shy but willing like an ass pissing.

The YEWS:  (Their SILVERFOIL of leaves precipitating, their skinny arms
aging and swaying) Deciduously!

The nymph:  (her features hardening, gropes in the folds of her habit) Sacrilege!  To attempt my virtue! (A large moist stain appears on her Robe) Sully my innocence!  You are not fit to touch the garment of a pure woman. (She clutches again in her Robe) Wait.  Satan, you’ll sing no more lovesongs.  Amen.  Amen.  Amen.  Amen. (She draws A poniard and, clad in the SHEATHMAIL of an elected knight of nine, strikes at his loins) Nekum!

Bloom:  (Starts up, seizes her hand) Hoy!  Nebrakada!  Cat o’ nine lives!  Fair play, madam.  No pruningknife.  The fox and the grapes, is it?  What do you lack with your barbed wire?  Crucifix not thick enough? (He clutches her veil) A holy abbot you want or Brophy, the lame gardener, or the spoutless statue of the watercarrier, or good mother Alphonsus, eh Reynard?

The nymph:  (With A cry flees from him unveiled, her plaster cast cracking, A cloud of stench escaping from the cracks) Poli ...!

Bloom:  (Calls after her) As if you didn’t get it on the double yourselves.  No jerks and multiple mucosities all over you.  I tried it.  Your strength our weakness.  What’s our studfee?  What will you pay on the nail?  You fee mendancers on the Riviera, I read. (The fleeing nymph raises A keen) Eh?  I have sixteen years of black slave labour behind me.  And would a jury give me five shillings alimony tomorrow, eh?  Fool someone else, not me. (He sniffs) Rut.  Onions.  Stale.  Sulphur.  Grease.

(The figure of Bella Cohen stands before him.)

Bella:  You’ll know me the next time.

Bloom:  (Composed, regards her) Passee.  Mutton dressed as lamb.  Long in the tooth and superfluous hair.  A raw onion the last thing at night would benefit your complexion.  And take some double chin drill.  Your eyes are as vapid as the glasseyes of your stuffed fox.  They have the dimensions of your other features, that’s all.  I’m not a triple screw propeller.

Bella:  (Contemptuously) You’re not game, in fact. (Her SOWCUNT barks)
Fbhracht!