To the Oracle of Apollo—
Here he speaks out of his pottle,
Or the tripos, his Tower bottle;
All his answers are divine,
Truth itself doth flow in wine.
Hang up all the poor hop-drinkers,
Cries old Sim the king of skinkers;
He that half of life abuses,
That sits watering with the Muses.
Those dull girls no good can mean us;