The earth’s prolific juice imbibes to grow.
The air sups up the water too, ’tis said,
Why then, my dearest friends, d’ye plague my head,
And angry grow, because, dry soul[5], I swill
New wine, drink fit for gods, and quaff my fill.
[1.] Essais, l. ii. ch. 2.
[2.] De Remed. Amor.
[3.] Essais, liv. ii. ch. 2.
[4.] Essais, liv. ii. ch. 2.
[5.] Anima mea non potest habitare in sicco. S. Aug.