wet clay falls upon the sodden grass just above where a dead head would lie if any chance had put it into the grave. Do you like the man's indifferent ways? Does she? Yes, fool! She lies beneath. Go, and wipe your old nose with prejudice, my friend, and sniffle to yourself! Those lips are there, my pair of lips, just six feet down beneath that clay. They were a pleasant book to read a future in. I have no regret. They pleased me well enough! Now, if you want them, take that spade and dig; but don't disturb the worms. You will not find that those lips are good for much. They never were. But they were what I liked. And others liked them too; but I was first! He may not have known that! How soft they were! Yet now they must be rotten. I should like to see the worms enjoying them; for, indeed, old fool, I have no jealousy, although you, square-toes, look as yellow as if you had been eating dead men's hearts to make you bilious.
You must dance, there on her grave. Dance with your hob-nailed boots to
