Stephen:  As a matter of fact it is of no importance whether Benedetto Marcello found it or made it.  The rite is the poet’s rest.  It may be an old hymn to Demeter or also illustrate COELA ENARRANT GLORIAM DOMINI.  It is susceptible of nodes or modes as far apart as hyperphrygian and mixolydian and of texts so divergent as priests haihooping round David’s that is Circe’s or what am I saying Ceres’ altar and David’s tip from the stable to his chief bassoonist about the alrightness of his almightiness.  Mais NOM de NOM, that is another pair of trousers.  JETEZ la GOURME.  FAUT QUE JEUNESSE Se Passe. (He stops, points at Lynch’s cap, smiles, laughs) Which side is your knowledge bump?

The cap:  (With saturnine spleen) Bah!  It is because it is.  Woman’s reason.  Jewgreek is greekjew.  Extremes meet.  Death is the highest form of life.  Bah!

Stephen:  You remember fairly accurately all my errors, boasts, mistakes. 
How long shall I continue to close my eyes to disloyalty?  Whetstone!

The cap:  Bah!

Stephen:  Here’s another for you. (He frowns) The reason is because the fundamental and the dominant are separated by the greatest possible interval which ...

The cap:  Which?  Finish.  You can’t.

Stephen:  (With an effort) Interval which.  Is the greatest possible ellipse.  Consistent with.  The ultimate return.  The octave.  Which.

The cap:  Which?

(Outside the gramophone begins to Blare The Holy City.)

Stephen:  (Abruptly) What went forth to the ends of the world to traverse not itself, God, the sun, Shakespeare, a commercial traveller, having itself traversed in reality itself becomes that self.  Wait a moment.  Wait a second.  Damn that fellow’s noise in the street.  Self which it itself was ineluctably preconditioned to become.  Ecco!

Lynch:  (With A mocking whinny of laughter grins at bloom and Zoe Higgins)
What a learned speech, eh?

Zoe:  (Briskly) God help your head, he knows more than you have forgotten.

(With obese stupidity Florry Talbot regards Stephen.)

Florry:  They say the last day is coming this summer.

Kitty:  No!

Zoe:  (Explodes in laughter) Great unjust God!

Florry:  (Offended) Well, it was in the papers about Antichrist.  O, my foot’s tickling.

(Ragged barefoot newsboys, jogging A wagtail kite, patter past, yelling.)