Wherein the perfect work of drink is shown
To eager lookers shivering at heart—
Some drunken, none too brutalised to start,—
Can subtlest skill excuse the hideous tale,
And fine perception calm the inner wail,
In breathless watching of victorious art
And well-trained imitation? Nay, the soul
Is wroth at last, and, strained too greatly, cries,
‘Record it not! Man that was made so fair
Can sink below all apedom, till control