maltese sailor. (reclining and shaking his cap.) it’s the waves—the snow’s caps turn to jig it now. they’ll shake their tassels soon. now would all the waves were women, then i’d go drown, and chassee with them evermore! there’s naught so sweet on earth—heaven may not match it!—as those swift glances of warm, wild bosoms in the dance, when the over-arboring arms hide such ripe, bursting grapes.