What wretch so dull but eloquent must grow,
When the full goblets with persuasive wine,
Inebriate with bright elegance divine,
The drunken beggars plume like proudest kings,
And the poor tipsy slave in fetters sings.
After all this, will any one accuse me for a plagiary, and that I steal from the most common places? No matter. I have company enough: do not all modern authors do so? However, I shall not, for all that, pass over in silence what Ovid has said of this same drunkenness. The passage is this:—
“Vina parant animos, faciuntque coloribus aptos.
Cura fugit, multo diluiturque mero.
Tunc veniunt risus, tunc pauper cornua sumit,
Tunc dolor et curæ, rugaque frontis abit.