And in a land where drinking's understood, Win the true honors of a gentle blood.

There's a squalid thing, call'd beer:-
The man whose lips that thing comes near
Swiftly dies; or falling foolish,

Grows, at forty, old and owlish.

She that in the ground would hide her,

Let her take to English cyder:

He who'd have his death come quicker,

Any other northern liquor.

Those Norwegians and those Laps

Have extraordinary taps:

Those Laps especially have strange fancies:

To see them drink,

I verily think

Would make me lose my senses.

But a truce to such vile subjects,

With their impious, shocking objects.

Let me purify my mouth

In an holy cup o' the south;

In a golden pitcher let me

Head and ears for comfort get me,

And drink of the wine of the vine benign,

That sparkles warm in Sansovine;

Or of that vermilion charmer

And heart-warmer,

Which brought up in Tregonzano

An old stony giggiano,

Blooms so bright and lifts the head so

Of the toasters of Arezzo.

T'will be haply still more up,

Sparkling, piquant, quick i' the cup,

If, O page, adroit and steady,

In thy tuck'd-up choral surplice,

Thou infusest that Albano,

That Vaiano,

Which engoldens and empurples

In the grounds there of my Redi.

Manna from heaven upon thy tresses rain,

Thou gentle vineyard, whence this nectar floats! May every vine, in every season, gain

New boughs, new leaves, new blossoms, and new

fruits:

May streams of milk, a new and dulcet strain,
Placidly bathe thy pebbles and thy roots;
Nor lingering frost, nor showers that pour amain,
Shed thy green hairs nor fright thy tender shoots:
And may thy master, when for age he's crooked,
Be able to drink of thee by the bucket!

Could the lady of Tithonus

Pledge but once her grey beard old

In as vast a tub of stone as

A becoming draught could hold,

That old worthy there above

Would renew his age of love

Meanwhile let's renew our drinking;

But with what fresh wine, and glorious,
Shall our beaded brims be winking,
For an echoing toast victorious?

You know Lamporecchio, the castle renown'd
For the gardener so dumb, whose works did
abound;

There's a topaz they make there; pray let it go

round.

Serve, serve me a dozen,

But let it be frozen;

Let it be frozen, and finished with ice,
And see that the ice be as virginly nice,
As the coldest that whistles from wintery skies.
Coolers and cellarets, chrystal with snows,
Should always hold bottles in ready repose.
Snow is good liquor's fifth element;

No compound without it can give content;
C

For weak is the brain, and I hereby scout it,

That thinks in hot weather to drink without it.

Bring me heaps from the shady valley:
Bring me heaps

Of all that sleeps

On every village hill and alley.

Hold there, you satyrs,

Your chuffs and your chatters,

And bring me ice duly, and bring it me doubly, Out of the grotto of Monte di Boboli.

With axes and pickaxes,

Hammers and rammers,

Thump it and hit it me,

Crack it and crash it me,

Hew it and split it me,

Pound it and smash it me,

Till the whole mass (for I'm dead dry, I think)

Turns to a cold, fit to freshen my drink.