Here he speaks out of his pottle,
Or the tripos, his Tower bottle;
All his answers are divine,
Truth itself doth flow in wine.
Hang up all the poor hop drinkers,
Cries old Sim, the King of Skinkers;
He who the half of life abuses,
That sits watering with the Muses,
Those dull girls no good can mean us;
Wine it is the milk of Venus,