As in typhoid-bearing water or in diphtheritic milk.
We're not all gin-sodden sots, though we do not empty lots
Of those enigmatic bottles, which to you are always dear,
Filled with liquor, washy, sweet, aërated. Such a treat
Is your execrable lemonade, your beastly ginger-beer!
Other people do not rave from the cradle to the grave.
The Frenchman takes his petit verre, his Bordeaux or his bock;
The German's limpid beer or his Rheinwein none need fear.
Even you would not be overcome by claret, say, or hock.
Then if you are truly wise, you will cease to close your eyes