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Mardi: and A Voyage Thither, Vol. II (of 2) by Herman Melville
page 147 of 437 (33%)
henceforth while I live. And at noon, every day will I meet thee,
sweet maid! And, oh Sun! set not; and poppies bend over us, when next
we embrace!"

"What ails that somnambulist?" cried Media, rising. "Yoomy, I say!
what ails thee?"

"He must have indulged over freely in those citrons," said Mohi,
sympathetically rubbing his fruitery. "Ho, Yoomy! a swallow of brine
will help thee."

"Alas," cried Babbalanja, "do the fairies then wait on repletion? Do
our dreams come from below, and not from the skies? Are we angels, or
dogs? Oh, Man, Man, Man! thou art harder to solve, than the Integral
Calculus--yet plain as a primer; harder to find than the
philosopher's-stone--yet ever at hand; a more cunning compound, than
an alchemist's--yet a hundred weight of flesh, to a penny weight of
spirit; soul and body glued together, firm as atom to atom, seamless
as the vestment without joint, warp or woof--yet divided as by a
river, spirit from flesh; growing both ways, like a tree, and dropping
thy topmost branches to earth, like thy beard or a banian!--I give
thee up, oh Man! thou art twain--yet indivisible; all things--yet a
poor unit at best."

"Philosopher you seem puzzled to account for the riddles of your
race," cried Media, sideways reclining at his ease. "Now, do thou, old
Mohi, stand up before a demi-god, and answer for all.--Draw nigh, so I
can eye thee. What art thou, mortal?"

"My worshipful lord, a man."
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