The faddist it mellows: the private
Secrets of State it can somehow arrive at.
Under its spell frolics Hypochondriasis;
Poverty learns what a millionnaire's bias is,
Yes, Poverty, such a spell under,
Laughs at the County Court's impotent thunder.
Fill, then! A bumper we'll empty between us to
Bacchus, the Pas-de-trois Graces, and Venus too,
With all of that classical ilk, man—
Till the stars fade with the morn and the milkman.