this strife of the chase? why weary, and palsy the arm at the oar, and the iron, and the lance?

how the richer or better is Ahab now? Behold. Oh, Starbuck! Is it not hard, that with this weary load I bear, one poor leg should have been snatched from under me? Here, brush this old hair aside; it blinds me, that I seem to weep. Locks so grey did never grow but from out some ashes! But do I look very old, so very, very old, Starbuck? I feel deadly faint, bowed, and humped, as though I were Adam, staggering beneath the piled centuries since Paradise. God! God! God! — crack my heart!

— stave my brain! — mockery! Mockery! Bitter, biting mockery of grey hairs, have I lived enough joy to wear ye; and seem and feel thus intolerably old? Close! Stand close to me, Starbuck; let