Make fire-flies; break the jinglers!

PIP. Jinglers, you say? — there goes another, dropped off; I pound it so.

CHINA SAILOR. Rattle thy teeth, then, and pound away; make a pagoda of thyself.

FRENCH SAILOR. Merry-mad! Hold up thy hoop, Pip, till I jump through it! Split jibs! Tear yourselves!

TASHTEGO. (Quietly smoking.) That’s a white man; he calls that fun: humph! I save my sweat.

OLD MANX SAILOR. I wonder whether those jolly lads bethink them of what they are dancing over.

I’ll dance over your grave, I will — that’s the bitterest threat of your night-women, that beat head-winds round corners. O Christ! To think of the green navies and the green-skulled crews! Well, well; belike the whole world’s