Faster and surer swells the vital tide;
And with more active poison, than the floods 460
Of grosser crudity convey, pervades
The far-remote meanders of our frame.
Ah! sly deceiver! Branded o’er and o’er,
Yet still believ’d! Exulting o’er the wreck
Of sober Vows! But the Parnassian maids 465
Another time perhaps shall sing the joys,
The fatal charms, the many woes of wine;
Perhaps its various tribes, and various powers.