"Cups of chocolate,Aye, or tea,
Are not medicines
Made for me.
I would sooner take to poison,
Than a single cup set eyes on
Of that bitter and guilty stuff ye
Talk of by the name of coffee!
Let the Arabs and the Turks
Count it 'mongst their cruel works:
Foe of mankind, black and turbid,
Let the throats of slaves absorb it.
Down in Tartarus, Down in Erebus,
'Twas the detestable Fifty invented it:
The Furies then took it,
To grind and to cook it,
And to Proserpine all three presented it.
If the Mussulman in Asia
Doats on a beverage so unseemly,
I differ with the man extremely."
"Down in Tartarus,
Down in Erebus,"
"I would sooner take to poison,
Than a single cup set eyes on,
Of that bitter and guilty stuff ye
Talk of by the name of coffee!"
"God's my life, what glorious claret!
Blessed be the ground that bare it!
'Tis Avignon. Don't say 'a flask of it,'
Into my soul I pour 'a cask of it!'
Artiminos finer still,
.mw-parser-output ._reconstructbracket{font-style:normal;font-weight:normal}⟨.mw-parser-output .wst-tooltip{cursor:help;border-bottom:thin dotted cornflowerblue}.mw-parser-output .wst-tooltip-nodash{border-bottom:none}Under a tun there's no having one's fill:⟩
A tun!—a tun!
The deed is done."
"Ciccio d'Andrea himself one day,
'Mid his thunders of eloquence bursting away,
Sweet in his gravity,
Fierce in his suavity,
Dared in my own proper presence to talk,
Of that stuff of Aversa, half acid and chalk.
Which, whether it's verjuice, or whether it's wine,
Far surpasses, I own, any science of mine.
Let him indulge in his strange tipples
With his proud friend, Fasano there, at Naples,
Who with a horrible impiety
Swore he could judge of wines as well as I.
So daring has that bold blasphemer grown,
He now pretends to ride my golden throne,
And taking up my triumphs, rolls along
The fair Sebetus with a fiery song;
Pampering, besides, those laurels that he wears
With vines that fatten in those genial airs;
And then he maddens, and against e'en me
A Thyrsus shakes on high, and threats his deity:
But I withhold at present, and endure him:
Phœbus and Pallas from mine ire secure him.
One day, perhaps, on the Sebetus, I
Will elevate a throne of luxury;
And then he will be humbled, and will come,
Offering devoutly, to avert his doom,
Ischia's and Posilippo's noble Greek:
And then perhaps I shall not scorn to make
Peace with him, and will booze like Hans and Herman
After the usage German:
And 'midst our bellying bottles and vast flasks
There shall be present at our tasks
For lofty arbiter (and witness gay too)
My gentle Marquis there of Oliveto."
"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.
'Twill 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."
See how it runs down his gizzern,
His gizzern, his gizzern,
See how it runs down his gizzern,
Ye ho, ye ho, ye ho!!
"What wine is that I see? Ah,
Bright as a John Dory:
It should be Malvagia,
Trebbia's praise and glory.
It is, i'faith, it is:
Push it nearer, pri'thee;
And let me, thou fair bliss,
Fill this magnum with thee.
I'faith, it's a good wine,
And much agrees with me.
Here's a health to thee and thy line,
Prince of Tuscany."
"To the sound of the cymbal,
And sound of the crotalus,
Girt with your Nebrides,
Ho, ye Bassarides,
Up, up, and mingle me
Cups of that purple grape,
Which, when ye grapple, ye
Bless Monterappoli.
Then, while I irrigate
These my dry viscera,
For they burn inwardly,
Let my Fauns cleverly
Cool my hot head with their
Garlands of pampinus.
Then to the crash of your
Pipes and your kettle-drums,
Let me have sung to me,
Roar'd to me, rung to me,
Catches and love-songs
Of wonderful mystery;
While the drunk Mænades,
And glad Egipani,
To the rude rapture and mystical wording
Bear a loud burden.
From the hill before us
Let the villagers raise o'er us
Clappings to our chorus;
And all around resound
Talabalács, tamburins, and horns,
And pipes, and bagpipes, and the things you know, boys,
That cry out Ho-boys!"
"The ruby dew that stills
Upon Valdarno's hills,
Touches the sense with odour so divine,
That not the violet,
With lips with morning wet,
Utters such sweetness from her little shrine.
When I drink of it, I rise
Over the hill that makes poets wise,
And in my voice and in my song,
Grow so sweet and grow so strong,
I challenge Phœbus with his delphic eyes.
Give me then, from a golden measure,
The ruby that is my treasure, my treasure;
And like to the lark that goes maddening above,
I'll sing songs of love!
Songs will I sing more moving and fine,
Than the bubbling and quaffing of Gersole wine.
Then the rote shall go round,
And the cymbals kiss,
And I'll praise Ariadne,
My beauty, my bliss!
I'll sing of her tresses,
I'll sing of her kisses;
Now, now it increases,
The fervour increases,
The fervour, the boiling and venemous bliss."
"He who drinks water,
I wish to observe,
Gets nothing from me;
He may eat it and starve,
Whether it's well, or whether it's fountain,
Or whether it comes foaming white from the mountain,
I cannot admire it,
Nor ever desire it:
'Tis a fool, and a madman, and impudent wretch,
Who now will live in a nasty ditch,
And then grow proud, and full of his whims,
Comes playing the devil and cursing his brims,
And swells, and tumbles, and bothers his margins,
And ruins the flowers, although they be virgins.
Moles and piers, were it not for him,
Would last for ever,
If they're built clever;
But no—it's all one with him—sink or swim.
Let the people yclept Mameluke
Praise the Nile without any rebuke;
Let the Spaniards praise the Tagus;
I cannot like either, even for negus.
If any follower of mine
Dares so far forget his wine,
As to drink an atom of water,
Here's the hand should devote him to slaughter.
Let your meagre doctorlings
Gather herbs and such like things;
Fellows, that with streams and stills
Think to cure all sorts of ills.
I've no faith in their washery,
Nor think it worth a glance of my eye:
Yes, I laugh at them for that matter,
To think how they, with their heaps of water,
Petrify their sculls profound,
And make 'em all so thick and so round,
That Viviani, with all his mathematics,
Would fail to square the circle of their attics.
Away with all water,
Wherever I come;
I forbid it ye, gentlemen,
All and some;
Lemonade water,
Jessamine water,
Our tavern knows none of 'em,
Water's a hum.
Jessamine makes a pretty crown;
But as a drink, 'twill never go down.
All your hydromels and flips
Come not near these prudent lips.
All your sippings and sherbets,
And a thousand such pretty sweets,
Let your mincing ladies take 'em,
And fops whose little fingers ache 'em.
Wine! Wine! is your only drink;
Grief never dares to look at the brink;
Six times a-year to be mad with wine,
I hold it no shame, but a very good sign.
I, for my part, take my can,
Solely to act like a gentleman."
"Hallo! What phenomenon's this,
That makes my head turn round?
I'faith I think it is
A turning of the ground!
Ho, ho, earth,
If that's your mirth,
It may not, I think, be amiss for me
To leave the earth, and take to the sea.
Hallo there, a boat! a boat!
As large as can float,
As large as can float, and stock'd plenteously;
For that's the ballast, boys, for the salt sea.
Here, here, here,—here's one of glass;
Yet through a storm it can dance with a lass.
I'll embark, I will,
For my gentle sport,
And drink as I'm used
'Till I settle in Port—
Rock, rock,—wine is my stock,
Wine is my stock, and will bring us to Port.
Row, brothers, row,
We'll sail and we'll go,
We'll all go sailing and rowing to Port—
Ariadne, to Por—to Port.
Oh what a thing
'Tis for you and for me,
On an evening in spring,
To sail in the sea!
The little fresh airs
Spread their silver wings,
And o'er the blue pavement
Dance love-makings.
To the tune of the waters, and tremulous glee,
They strike up a dance to people at sea.
Row, brothers, row,
We'll sail and we'll go,
We'll sail and we'll go, till we settle in Port—
Ariadne, in Por—in Port.
Pull away, pull away,
Without drag or delay:
No gallants grow tired, but think it a sport,
To feather their oars till they settle in Port.
Ariadne, in Por—in Port.
I'll give you a toast,
And then, you know, you,
Arianeeny, my beauty, my queeny,
Shall sing me a little, and play to me too
On the mandòla, the coocooroocoo,
The coocooroocoo,
The coocooroocoo,
On the mandòla, the coocooroocoo.
A long pu—
⟨A strong pu—⟩
A long pull, and strong pull, and pull altogether!
Gallants and boaters, who know how to feather,
Never get tired, but think it a sport,
To feather their oars, till they settle in port—
Ariadne, in Por—Port;
I'll give thee a toas—
I'll give thee a toast—and then, you know, you
Shall give me one too.
Arianeeny, my quainty, my queeny,
Sing me, you ro—
Sing me, you ro—
Sing me, you rogue, and play to me, do,
On the viò—
On the viòla, the coocooroocoo,
The coocooroocoo,
The coocooroocoo.
On the viòla, the coocooroocoo."