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A Tankard of Ale |
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And to show he lov'd wine that was good To the last we may truly aver it,
That he tinctur'd the bath with his blood, So he fancied he died in his claret.
Pythag'ras did silence enjoin
On his pupils, who wisdom would seek, Because that he tippled good wine
Till himself was unable to speak : And when he was whimsical grown
With sipping his plentiful bowls, By the strength of the juice in his crown
He conceiv'd transmigration of souls.
Copernicus, like to the rest,
Believ'd there was wisdom in wine, And fancied a cup of the best
Made reason the brighter to shine ; With wine he replenish'd his veins,
And made his philosophy reel; Then fancied the world like his brains,
Ran round like a chariot wheel.
Theophrastus, that eloquent sage,
By Athens so greatly ador'd, With a bottle would boldly engage,
When mellow was brisk as a bird ; Would chat, tell a story, and jest
Most pleasantly over a glass, And thought a dumb guest at a feast'
But a dull philosophical ass.
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