Whose raging thirst, like fire, will not be tam'd,
The more they pour, the more they are inflam'd.
Woe unto them that only mighty are
To wage with wine; in which unhappy war
They who the glory of the day have won,
Must yield them foil'd and vanquish'd by the tun.
Men that live thus, as if they liv'd in jest,
30Fooling their time with music and a feast;
That did exile all sounds from their soft ear
But of the harp, must this sad discord hear