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The Tippling Philosophers
Anaxarchus, more patient than Job,
By pestles was pounded to death, Yet scorn'd that a groan or a sob
Should waste the remains of his breath; But sure he was free with the glass,
And drank to a pitch of disdain, Or the strength of his wisdom, alas !
I fear would have flinch'd at the pain.
Aristotle, the master of arts,
Had been but a dunce without wine, And what we ascribe to his parts,
Is due to the juice of the vine : His belly, most writers agree,
Was as large as a watering-trough ; He therefore jump'd into the sea,
Because he'd have liquor enough.
When Pyrrho had taken a glass,
He saw that no object appear'd Exactly the same as it was
Before he had liquor'd his beard ; For things running round in his drink,
Which sober he motionless found, Occasion'd the sceptic to think
There was nothing of truth to be found.
Old Plato was reckon'd divine,
He wisely to virtue was prone ; But had it not been for good wine, His merits we never had known. 65 |
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