Its best, I withstand it—unless all concur
In adventure so novel.
Apol. Ye drink?
The Fates. We demur.
Apol. Sweet Trine, be indulgent nor scout the contrivance
Of Man—Bacchus-prompted! The juice, I uphold,
Illuminates gloom without sunny connivance,
Turns fear into hope and makes cowardice bold,—
Touching all that is leadlike in life turns it gold!