He took a beaker and, filling it with wine, thus toasted his honour:-- "God willing, I desire and pray that the Majesty of Heaven may suffer your honour, both to-day and hereafter, to go about clothed in velvet well patched with gold ducats, and ride a good nag shod with silver shoes.

I pray that your honour may not be able to count the hairs of your head, and that as many blessings may be showered upon your shoulders as you have lost hairs from your poll.

I pray that all the ministering angels of heaven may have nothing else to do but sweep all earthly cares out of your honour's path.

I pray that the golden-spurred _csizmas_ of your felicity may never be bespattered by the puddles of tribulation.

I pray that the field-flask of your good humour may always be filled with the red wine of Eger.