In war all their days let them pass:
No arms but the bottle I’ll weild,
Fill, boy, then, a thundering glass,
III.
If Bacchus the victory gain,
On the ground tho’ I’m motionless laid;
All agree it, a truth very plain,
’Tis better be drunk than be dead.
And very probably the Greek philosopher had wine in view, when he caused an inscription to be made over his door in these words, in capitals, “Here are remedies for all sorts of afflictions: here are cures for all distempers of the soul.”
The philosopher so often quoted by Seneca, desired no more than bread and cheese, to rival Jupiter in happiness. For my part, though I am no less a philosopher, yet I desire nothing to effect this but good wine. For when I take a hearty glass, I find myself so much transported with joy, that I could almost cry out with that little fool in the Latin comedy[10], “Now could I pardon any one that would kill me, so much afraid am I lest some accident may trouble the purity of my happiness, and mingle some ungrateful bitter with the exquisite sweets I now enjoy.” And, indeed, it is amongst bottles and glasses that one may truly say,