OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 077

He had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows. Stepping into the porch he doffed his hat, took the card from his pocket and tucked it again behind the leather headband. Damn it. I might have tried to work M’Coy for a pass to Mullingar.
Same notice on the door. Sermon by the very reverend John Conmee S. J. on saint Peter Claver and the African mission. Save China’s millions. Wonder how they explain it to the heathen Chinee. Prefer an ounce of opium. Celestials. Rank heresy for them. Prayers for the conversion of Gladstone they had too when he was almost unconscious. The protestants the same. Convert Dr. William. J. Walsh D. D. to the true religion. Buddha their god lying on his side in the museum. Taking it easy with hand under his cheek. Josssticks burning. Not like Ecce Homo. Crown of thorns and cross. Clever idea Saint Patrick the shamrock. Chopsticks? Conmee : Martin Cunningham knows him : distinguished looking. Sorry I didn’t work him about getting Molly into the choir instead of that Father Farley who looked a fool but wasn’t. They’re taught that. He’s not going out in bluey specs whit the sweat rolling off him to baptise blacks, is he? The glasses would take their fancy, flashing. Like to see them sitting round in a ring with blub lips, entranced, listening. Still life. Lap it up like milk, I suppose.
The cold smell of sacred stone called him. He trod the worn steps, pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by the rere.
Something going on : some sodality. Pity so empty. Nice discreet place to be next some girl. Who is my neighbour? Jammed by the hour to slow music. That woman at midnight mass. Seventh heaven. Women knelt in the benches with crimson halters round their necks, heads bowed. A batch knelt at the altar rails. The priest went along by them, murmuring, holding the thing in his hands. He stopped at each, took out a communion, shook a drop or two (are they in water?) off it and put it neatly into her mouth. Her hat and head sank. Then the next one : a small old woman. The priest bent down to put it into her mouth, murmuring all the time. Latin. The next one. Shut your eyes and open your mouth. What? Corpus. Body. Corpse. Good idea the Latin. Stupe- fies them first. Hospice for the dying. They don’t seem to chew it; only swallow it down. Rum idea : eating bits of a corpse why the cannibals cotton to it.
He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle, one by one, and seek their places. He approached a bench and seated himself in its corner, nursing his hat and newspaper. These pots we have to wear. We ought
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 082

— No, Mr Bloom said. Make it up, please. I’ll call later in the day and I’ll take one of those soaps. How much are they?
— Fourpence, sir.
Mr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweet lemony wax.
— I’ll take this one, he said. That makes three and a penny.
— Yes, sir, the chemist said. You can pay all together, sir, when you come back.
— Good, Mr Bloom said.
He strolled out of the shop, the newspaper baton under his armpit, the coolwrappered soap in his left hand.
At his armpit Bantam Lyons’ voice and hand said :
— Hello, Bloom, what’s the best news? Is that today’s? Show us a minute.
Shaved off his moustache again, by Jove! Long cold upper lip. To look younger. He does look balmy. Younger than I am.
Bantam Lyons’ yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the baton. Wants a wash too. Take off the rough dirt. Good morning, have you used Pears’ soap. Dandruff on his shoulders. Scalp wants oiling.
— I want to see about that French horse that’s running today, Bantam Lyons’ said. Where the bugger is it?
He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his high collar. Barber’s itch. Tight collar he’ll lose his hair. Better leave him the paper and get shut of him.
— You can keep it, Mr Bloom said.
— Ascot. Gold cup. Wait, Bantam Lyons muttered. Half a mo. Maximum the second.
— I was just going to throw it away, Mr Bloom said.
Bantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered weakly.
— What’s that? his sharp voice said.
— I say you can keep it, Mr Bloom answered. I was going to throw it away that moment.
Bantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering : then thrust the outspread sheets back on Mr Bloom’s arms.
— I’Il risk it, he said. Here, thanks.
He sped off towards Conway’s corner. God speed scut.
Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a neat square and lodged the soap in it, smiling. Silly lips of that chap. Betting. Regular hotbed of it lately. Messenger boys stealing to put on sixpence. Raffle for large tender turkey.
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 084

Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the creaking carriage and, entering deftly, seated himself. Mr Power stepped in after him, curving his height with care.
— Come on, Simon.
— After you, Mr Bloom said.
Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, saying :
— Yes, yes.
— Are we all here now? Martin Cunningham asked. Come along, Bloom.
Mr Bloom entered and sat in the vacant place. He pulled the door to after him and slammed it tight till it shut tight. He passed an arm through the armstrap and looked seriously from the open carriage window at the lowered blinds of the avenue. One dragged aside : an old woman peeping. Nose white- flattened against the pane. Thanking her stars she was passed over. Extraordinary the interest they take in a corpse. Glad to see us go we give them such trouble coming. Job seems to suit them. Huggermugger in corners. Slop about in slipperslappers for fear he’d wake. Then getting it ready. Laying it out. Molly and Mrs Fleming making the bed. Pull it more to your side. Our windingsheet. Never know who will touch you dead. Wash and shampoo. I believe they clip the nails and the hair. Keep a bit in an envelope. Grow all the same after. Unclean job.
All waited. Nothing was said. Stowing in the wreaths probably. I am sitting on something hard. Ah, that soap in my hip pocket. Better shift it out of that. Wait for an opportunity.
All waited. Then wheels were heard from in front turning : then nearer : then horses’ hoofs. A jolt. Their carriage began to move, creaking and swaying.
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 076

                O, Mary lost the pin of her drawers.
                She didn’t know what to do
                To keep it up
                To keep it up.
It? Them. Such a bad headache. Has her roses probably. Or sitting all day typing. Eyefocus bad for stomach nerves. What perfume does your wife use? Now could you make out a thing like that?
To keep it up.
Martha, Mary. I saw that picture somewhere I forget now old master or faked for money. He is sitting in their house, talking. Mysterious. Also the two sluts in the Coombe would listen.
To keep it up.
Nice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering about. Just loll there : quiet dusk : let everything rip. Forget. Tell about places you have been, strange customs. The other one, jar on her head, was getting the supper : fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of the well stonecold like the hole in the wall at Ashtown. Must carry a paper goblet next time I go to the trottingmatches. She listens with big dark soft eyes. Tell her : more and more : all. Then a sigh : silence. Long long long rest.
Going under the railway arch he took out the envelope, tore it swiftly in shreds and scattered them towards the road. The shreds fluttered away, sank in the dank air : a white flutter then all sank.
Henry Flower. You could tear up a cheque for a hundred pounds in the same way. Simple bit of paper. Lord Iveagh once cashed a sevenfigure cheque for a million in the bank of Ireland. Shows you the money to be made out of porter. Still the other brother lord Ardilaun has to change his shirt four times a day, they say. Skin breeds lice or vermin. A million pounds, wait a moment. Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart, eightpence a gallon of porter, no, one and fourpence a gallon of porter. One and four into twenty : fifteen about. Yes, exactly. Fifteen millions of barrels of porter.
What am I saying barrels? Gallons. About a million barrels all the same.
An incoming train clanked heavily above his head, coach after coach. Barrels bumped in his head : dull porter slopped and churned inside. The bungholes sprang open and a huge dull flood leaked out, flowing together, winding through mudflats all over the level land, a lazy pooling swirl of liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth.
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 080

Hail Mary and Holy Mary. Flowers, incense, candles melting. Hide her blushes. Salvation army blatant imitation. Reformed prostitute will address the meeting. How I found the Lord. Squareheaded chaps those must be in Rome : they work the whole show. And don’t they rake in the money too? Bequests also : to the P. P. for the time being in his absolute discretion. Masses for the repose of my soul to be said publicly with open doors. Monasteries and convents. The priest in the Fermanagh will case in the witness box. No browbeating him. He had his answer pat for everything. Liberty and exaltation of our holy mother the church. The doctors of the church : they mapped
out the whole theology of it.
The priest prayed :
— Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the hour of conflict. Be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil (may God restrain him, we humbly pray) : and do thou, O prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God thrust Satan down to hell and with him those other wicked spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls.
The priest and the massboy stood up and walked off. All over. The women remained behind : thanksgiving.
Better be shoving along. Brother Buzz. Come around with the plate perhaps. Pay your Easter duty.
He stood up. Hello. Were those two buttons of my waistcoat open all the time. Women enjoy it. Annoyed if you don’t. Why didn’t you tell me before. Never tell you. But we. Excuse, miss, there’s a (whh!) just a (whh!) fluff. Or their skirt behind, placket unhooked. Glimpses of the moon. Still like you better untidy. Good job it wasn’t farther south. He passed, discreetly buttoning, down the aisle and out through the main door into rhe light. He stood a moment unseeing by the cold black marble bowl while before him and behind two worshippers dipped furtive hands in the low tide of holy water. Trams : a car of Prescott’s dyeworks : a widow in her weeds. Notice because I’m in mourning myself. He covered himself. How goes the time? Quarter past. Time enough yet. Better get that lotion made up. Where is this? Ah yes, the last time. Sweny’s in Lincoln place. Chemists rarely move. Their green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir. Hamilton Long’s, founded in the year of the flood. Huguenot churchyard near there. Visit some day.
He walked southward along Westland row. But the recipe is in the other trousers. O, and I forgot that latchkey too. Bore this funeral affair. O well, poor fellow, it’s not his fault. When was it I got it made up last? Wait.
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 081

I changed a sovereign I remember. First of the month it must have been or the second. O he can look it up in the prescriptions book.
The chemist turned back page after page. Sandy shrivelled smell he seems to have. Shrunken skull. And old. Quest for the philosopher’s stone. The alchemists. Drugs age you after mental excitement. Lethargy then. Why? Reaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually changes your character. Living all the day among herbs, ointments, disinfectants. All his alabaster lilypots. Mortar and pestle. Aq. Dist. Fol. Laur. Te Virid. Smell almost cure you like the dentist’s doorbell. Doctor whack. He ought to physic himself a bit. Electuary or emulsion. The first fellow that picked an herb to cure himself had a bit of pluck. Simples. Want to be careful. Enough stuff here to chloroform you. Test : turns blue litmus paper red. Chloroform. Overdose of laudanum. Sleeping draughts. Lovephiltres. Paragoric poppysyrup bad for cough. Clogs the pores or the phlegm. Poisons the only cures. Remedy where you least expect it. Clever of nature.
— About a fortnight ago, sir?
— Yes, Mr Bloom said.
He waited by the counter, inhaling the keen reek of drugs, the dusty dry smell of sponges and loofahs. Lot of time taken up telling your aches and pains.
— Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr Bloom said, and then orangeflower water...
It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax.
— And white wax also, he said.
Brings out the darkness of her eyes. Looking at me, the sheet up to her eyes, Spanish, smelling herself, when I was fixing the links in my cuffs. Those homely recipes are often the best : strawberries for the teeth : nettles and rainwater : oatmeal they say steeped in buttermilk. Skinfood. One of the old queen’s sons, duke of Albany was it? had only one skin. Leopold yes. Three we have. Warts, bunions and pimples to make it worse. But you want a perfume too. What perfume does your? Peau d’Espagne. That orange- flower. Pure curd soap. Water is so fresh. Nice smell these soaps have. Time to get a bath round the corner. Hammam. Turkish. Massage. Dirt gets rolled up in your navel. Nicer if a nice girl did it. Also I think I. Yes I. Do it in the bath. Curious longing I. Water to water. Combine business with pleasure. Pity no time for massage. Feel fresh then all day. Funeral be rather glum.
— Yes, sir, the chemist said. That was two and nine. Have you brought a bottle?
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 083

Your Christmas dinner for threepence. Jack Fleming embezzling to gamble then smuggled off to America. Keeps a hotel now. They never come back. Fleshpots of Egypt.
He walked cheerfully towards the mosque of the baths. Remind you of a mosque, redbaked bricks, the minarets. College sports today I see. He eyed the horseshoe poster over the gate of college park : cyclist doubled up like a cod in a pot. Damn bad ad. Now if they had made it round like a wheel. Then the spokes : sports, sports, sports : and the hub big : college. Something to catch the eye.
There’s Hornblower standing at the porter’s lodge. Keep him on hands : might take a turn in there on the nod. How do you do, Mr Hornblower? How do you do, sir?
Heavenly weather really. If life was always like that. Cricket weather. Sit around under sunshades. Over after over. Out. They can’t play it here. Duck for six wickets. Still Captain Buller broke a window in the Kildare street club with a slog to square leg. Donnybrook fair more in their line. And the skulls we were acracking when M’Carthy took the floor. Heatwave. Won’t last. Always passing, the stream of life, which in the stream of life we trace is dearer than them all.
Enjoy a bath now : clean trough of water, cool enamel, the gentle tepid stream. This is my body.
He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow : his navel, bud of flesh : and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languid floating flower.
# The Annals (Tacitus)

Translation based on Alfred John Church and William Jackson Brodribb (1876)

## Contents

* Book 1: 14-15 AD Tiberius
* Book 2: 16-19 AD Tiberius
* Book 3: 20-22 AD Tiberius
* Book 4: 23-28 AD Tiberius
* Book 5: 29-31 AD Tiberius
* Book 6: 32-37 AD Tiberius
* Books 7-10 are lost: 37-47 AD Caligula, Claudius
* Book 11: 47-48 AD Claudius
* Book 12: 48-54 AD Claudius
* Book 13: 54-58 AD Nero
* Book 14: 59-62 AD Nero
* Book 15: 62-65 AD Nero
* Book 16: 65-66 AD Nero
# The "Bab" Ballads/The Reverend Micah Sowls

THE REVEREND MICAH SOWLS.
THE Reverend Micah Sowls,
He shouts and yells and howls,
He screams, he mouths, he bumps,
He foams, he rants, he thumps.
His armour he has buckled on to wage
The regulation war against the Stage;
And warns his congregation all to shun
"The Presence Chamber of the Evil One."
The subject's sad enough
To make him rant and puff,
And fortunately, too,
His Bishop's in a pew.
So Reverend Micah claps on extra steam,
His eyes are flashing with superior gleam, He is as energetic as can be,
For there are fatter livings in that see.
The Bishop, when it's o'er, Goes through the vestry door
Where Micah, very red, Is mopping of his head.
"Pardon, my Lord, your Sowls' excessive zeal,
It is a theme on which I strongly feel."
(The sermon somebody had sent him down
From London, at a charge of half-a-crown.)
The Bishop bowed his head
And, acquiescing, said,
"I've heard your well-meant rage
Against the Modern Stage.
"A modern Theatre, as I heard you say,
Sows seeds of evil broad-cast: well, it may—
But let me ask you, my respected son,
Pray, have you ever ventured into one?"   "My Lord," said Micah, "No!
I never, never go!
What! Go and see a play?
My goodness gracious, nay!"
The worthy Bishop said, "My friend, no doubt
The stage may be the place you make it out;
But if, my Reverend Sowls, you never go,
I don't quite understand how you're to know."
"Well, really," Micah said,
"I've often heard and read,
But never go—do you?"
The Bishop said, "I do."
"That proves me wrong," said Micah, in a trice;
"I thought it all frivolity and vice."
The Bishop handed him a counter plain;
"Just take this stall and go to Drury Lane."
The Bishop took his leave,
Rejoicing in his sleeve.
The next ensuing day
Sowls went and heard a play.
He saw a dreary person on the stage,
Who mouthed and mugged in simulated rage—
Who growled and spluttered in a mode absurd,
And spoke an English Sowls had never heard.
For "gaunt" wast spoken "garnt,"
And "haunt" transformed to "harnt,"
And "wrath" pronounced as "rath,"
And "death" was changed to "dath."
For hours and hours that dismal actor walked
And talked, and talked, and talked, and talked,
Till lethargy upon the parson crept, And sleepy Micah Sowls serenely slept.
He slept away until
The farce that closed the bill
Had warned him not to stay,
And then he went away.
"I thought," said he, "I was a dreary thing,
I thought my voice quite destitute of ring,
I thought my ranting could distract the brain,
But oh! I hadn't been to Drury Lane.
"Forgive me, Drury Lane,
Thou penitential fane, Where sinners should be cast
To mourn their wicked past!"
# The "Bab" Ballads/The Rival Curates

THE RIVAL CURATES.
LIST while the poet trolls
Of Mr. Clayton Hooper, Who had a cure of souls
At Spiffton-extra-Sooper
He lived on curds and whey,
And daily sang their praises,
And then he'd go and play
With buttercups and daisies.
Wild croquêt Hooper banned,
And all the sports of Mammon,
He warred with cribbage, and
He exorcised backgammon.
His helmet was a glance
That spoke of holy gladness;
A saintly smile his lance,
His shield a tear of sadness.
His Vicar smiled to see
This armour on him buckled:
With pardonable glee
He blessed himself and chuckled.
"In mildness to abound
My curate's sole design is,
In all the country round
There's none so mild as mine is!"
And Hooper, disinclined
 His trumpet to be blowing,
Yet didn't think you'd find
 A milder curate going.
A friend arrived one day  At Spiffton-extra-Sooper,
And in this shameful way
 He spoke to Mr. Hooper:   "You think your famous name
 For mildness can't be shaken,
That none can blot your fame—
 But, Hooper, you're mistaken!   "Your mind is not as blank
 As that of Hopley Porter,
Who holds a curate's rank
 At Assesmilk-cum-Worter.
"He plays the airy flute,
 And looks depressed and blighted,
Doves round about him 'toot,'
 And lambkins dance delighted.
"He labours more than you
 At worsted work, and frames it;
In old maids' albums, too,
 Sticks seaweed—yes, and names it!"   The tempter said his say,
 Which pierced him like a needle—
He summoned straight away
 His sexton and his beadle.
(These men were men who could
 Hold liberal opinions:
On Sundays they were good—
 On week-days they were minions.)
"To Hopley Porter go,
 Your fare I will afford you—
Deal him a deadly blow
 And blessings shall reward you.
"But stay—I do not like
 Undue assassination,
And so before you strike,
 Make this communication:   "I'll give him this one chance—
 If he'll more gaily bear him,
Play croquêt, smoke, and dance,
 I willingly will spare him."
They went, those minions true.
 To Assesmilk-cum-Worter,
And told their errand to
 The Reverend Hopley Porter.
"What?" said that reverend gent,
 "Dance through my hours of leisure?
Smoke?—bathe myself with scent?—
 Play croquêt? Oh, with pleasure!
"Wear all my hair in curl?
 Stand at my door and wink—so:—
At every passing girl?
 My brothers, I should think so!
"For years I've longed for some
 Excuse for this revulsion:
Now that excuse has come—
 I do it on compulsion!!!"
He smoked and winked away—  This Reverend Hopley Porter—
The deuce there was to pay  At Assesmilk-cum-Worter.
And Hooper holds his ground,
 In mildness daily growing—
They think him, all around,
 The mildest curate going.
# The "Bab" Ballads/The Pantomime "Super" to his Mask

THE PANTOMIME "SUPER" TO HIS MASK.
VAST empty shell!
Impertinent, preposterous abortion:
With vacant stare,
And ragged hair,
And every feature out of all proportion!
Embodiment of echoing inanity!
Excellent type of simpering insanity!
Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity!
I ring thy knell!
To-night thou diest,
Beast that destroy'st my heaven-born identity!
Nine weeks of nights,
Before the lights,
Swamped in thine own preposterous nonentity,
I've been ill-treated, cursed, and thrashed diurnally,
Credited for the smile you wear externally—
I feel disposed to smash thy face, infernally,
As there thou liest!   I've been thy brain:
I've been the brain that lit thy dull concavity!
The human race
Invest my face
With thine expression of unchecked depravity,
Invested with a ghastly reciprocity,
I've been responsible for thy monstrosity,
I, for thy wanton, blundering ferocity—
But not again!
'Tis time to toll
Thy knell, and that of follies pantomimical:
A nine weeks' run,
And thou hast done
All thou cans't do to make thyself inimical.
Adieu, embodiment of all inanity!
Excellent type of simpering insanity!
Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity!
Freed is thy soul!
(The Mask respondeth.)
Oh! master mine, Look thou within thee, ere again ill-using me.
Art thou aware
Of nothing there
Which might abuse thee, as thou art abusing me?
A brain that mourns thine unredeemed rascality?
A soul that weeps at thy thread-bare morality?
Both grieving that their individuality
Is merged in thine?