As for the true poetic fire,
What is it but a mad desire?
While Pegasus himself, at best,
Only a horse must be confess’d;
And he must be an ass indeed,
Who would bestride the winged steed.
Bacchus, thou who watchest o’er
All feasts of ours, whom I adore
With each new draught of rosy wine
That makes my red face like to thine—