As if the poet, primed with Thasian juice,
(Himself swore—wine that conquers every kind
For long abiding in the head) could fix
Thenceforward any object in its truth,
Through eyeballs bathed by mere Castalian dew,
Nor miss the borrowed medium,—vinous drop
That colors all to the right crimson pitch
When mirth grows mockery, censure takes the tinge
Of malice!
All was Aristophanes: