To go with temperance even-handed.
The golden age is for the dead:
We've got the paper age instead!
"For, ah! our bottles still decline,
And daily dearer grows our wine,
And flat and void our pockets fall;
Faith! soon there'll be no times at all!"
This is rather the cry of those who live that they may drink, than of our wiser selves, who drink that we may live. In truth, we are not dead to the charms of other drinks, in moderation. The apple has had a share of our favour, being recommended to our literary notice by an olden poet—
"Praised and caress'd, the tuneful Phillips sung
Of cyder famed, whence first his laurels sprung;"