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 a ball, as you scholars have it; and so ’tis right to make one ballroom of it. dance on, lads, you’re young; i was once.