Many happy returns of this day to you—­and you—­and you, Sir—­nay, never frown, man, nor put a long face upon the matter.  Do not we know one another? what need of ceremony among friends? we have all a touch of that same—­you understand me—­a speck of the motley.  Beshrew the man who on such a day as this, the general festival, should affect to stand aloof.  I am none of those sneakers.  I am free of the corporation, and care not who knows it.  He that meets me in the forest to-day, shall meet with no wise-acre, I can tell him. Stultus sum.  Translate me that, and take the meaning of it to yourself for your pains.  What, man, we have four quarters of the globe on our side, at the least computation.

Fill us a cup of that sparkling gooseberry—­we will drink no wise, melancholy, politic port on this day—­and let us troll the catch of Amiens—­duc ad me—­duc ad me—­how goes it?

  Here shall he see
  Gross fools as he.

Now would I give a trifle to know historically and authentically, who was the greatest fool that ever lived.  I would certainly give him in a bumper.  Marry, of the present breed, I think I could without much difficulty name you the party.

Remove your cap a little further, if you please:  it hides my bauble.  And now each man bestride his hobby, and dust away his bells to what tune he pleases.  I will give you, for my part,

  —­The crazy old church clock. 
  And the bewildered chimes.

Good master Empedocles, you are welcome.  It is long since you went a salamander-gathering down AEtna.  Worse than samphire-picking by some odds.  ’Tis a mercy your worship did not singe your mustachios.

Ha!  Cleombrotus! and what salads in faith did you light upon at the bottom of the Mediterranean?  You were founder, I take it, of the disinterested sect of the Calenturists.

Gebir, my old free-mason, and prince of plasterers at Babel, bring in your trowel, most Ancient Grand!  You have claim to a seat here at my right hand, as patron of the stammerers.  You left your work, if I remember Herodotus correctly, at eight hundred million toises, or thereabout, above the level of the sea.  Bless us, what a long bell you must have pulled, to call your top workmen to their nuncheon on the low grounds of Sennaar.  Or did you send up your garlick and onions by a rocket?  I am a rogue if I am not ashamed to show you our Monument on Fish-street Hill, after your altitudes.  Yet we think it somewhat.

What, the magnanimous Alexander in tears?—­cry, baby, put its finger in its eye, it shall have another globe, round as an orange, pretty moppet!

Mister Adams—­’odso, I honour your coat—­pray do us the favour to read to us that sermon, which you lent to Mistress Slipslop—­the twenty and second in your portmanteau there—­on Female Incontinence—­the same—­it will come in most irrelevantly and impertinently seasonable to the time of the day.