this _memento_ keep,
To lull the cares and toils of life asleep
With cordial juleps of old mellow wine;
The grand and universal anodyne.

In another place he thus beautifully sounds the praises of
drunkenness:--

"Ebrietas quid non designat? operta recludit
Spes jubet esse ratas: in praelia trudit inertem,
Sollicitis animis onus eximit: addocet artes.
Facundi calices, quem non fecere disertum?
Contracta quem non in paupertate solutum."[9b]

In drunkenness what pow'rful magic lies,
What's most envelop'd from researching eyes,
(Transparent thing!) it evidently shows,
The innocent no dark disguises knows.
By her commands our hopes maturely rise,
Push'd on to war the coward dauntless dies,
And sinking minds beneath unwieldy care,
Cast off the load, and move with sprightful air.
To her, all arts their origin must owe:
What wretch so dull but eloquent must grow,
When the full goblets with persuasive wine,
Inebriate with bright elegance divine,
The drunken beggars plume like proudest kings,
And the poor tipsy slave in fetters sings.

After all this, will any one accuse me for a plagiary, and that I steal
from the most common places? No matter. I have company enough: do not
all modern authors do so? However, I shall not, for all that, pass over
in silence what Ovid has said of this same drunkenness. The passage is
this:--

"Vina parant animos, faciuntque coloribus aptos.
Cura fugit, multo diluiturque mero.
Tunc veniunt risus, tunc pauper cornua sumit,
Tunc dolor et curae, rugaque frontis abit.
Tunc aperit mentes, aevo rarissima nostro
Simplicitas, artes excutiente Deo."[9c]

As I am nothing less than a poet, I shall not presume _to dance with the
Nine Sisters_, to make use of the thought of the ingenious Sarasin.
However, here follows an Ode of Anacreon, which may supply the place of
a translation of those verses of Ovid.

I.

When I hold a full glass in my hand,
I laugh and I merrily sing;
I think I have sov'reign command
And the treasures possess of a king.

II.

Let who will try their fate in the field,
In war all their days let them pass:
No arms but the bottle I'll weild,
Fill, boy, then, a thundering glass,

III.

If Bacchus the victory gain,
On the ground tho' I'm motionless laid;
All agree it, _a truth very plain_,
'Tis better be _drunk_ than be _dead_.

And very probably