All that my soul hath felt and known,

Then look within the wine-cup’s glow;

See if its brightness can atone;

Think of its flavor would you try,

If all proclaimed,—’Tis drink and die.

Tell me I hate the bowl,—

Hate is a feeble word;

I loathe, abhor, my very soul

By strong disgust is stirred

Whene’er I see, or hear, or tell