And would laugh like a man that was mad
When over a good flowing bowl.
As long as his cellar was stor’d,
The liquor he’d merrily quaff,
And when he was drunk as a lord
At those who were sober he’d laugh.
Aristotle, the master of arts,
Had been but a dunce without wine,
And what we ascribe to his parts
Is due to the juice of the vine.