Wise Thales, the father of all,
The Greek philosophical crew,
Ere he gazed at the heavens would call
For a chirruping bottle or two,
That, when he had brighten'd his eyes,
He the planets might better behold,
And make the fools think he was wise,
By the whimsical tales that he told.

Diogenes, surly and proud,
Who snarl'd at the Macedon youth,
Delighted in wine that was good,
Because in good wine there is truth;
Till growing as poor as a Job,
Unable to purchase a flask,
He chose for his mansion a tub,
And liv'd by the scent of the cask.

Heraclitus would never deny
A bumper to comfort his heart;
And when he was maudlin would cry,
Because he had emptied his quart:
Though some are so foolish to think
He wept at man's folly and vice,
'Twas only his custom to drink
Till the liquor flow'd out of his eyes.

Democritus always was glad
To tipple and cherish his soul;
And would laugh like a man that was mad,
When over a full flowing bowl:
As long as his cellar was stor'd,
The liquor he'd merrily quaff;
And when he was drunk as a lord
At those that were sober he'd laugh.

Wise Solon, who carefully gave
Good laws unto Athens of old,
And thought the rich Craesus a slave,
Though a king, to his coffers of gold;
He delighted in plentiful bowls,
But, drinking, much talk would decline,
Because 'twas the custom of fools
To prattle much over their wine.

Old Socrates ne'er was content,
Till a bottle had heighten'd his joys,
Who in's cups to the oracle went,
Or he ne'er had been counted so wise
Late hours he certainly lov'd,
Made wine the delight of his life,
Or Xantippe would never have proved.
Such a damnable scold of a wife.

Grave Seneca, fam'd for his parts,
Who tutored the bully of Rome,
Grew wise o'er his cups and his quarts,
Which he drank like a miser at home:
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.

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.
By wine we are generous made,
It furnishes fancy with wings;
Without it we ne'er should have had
Philosophers, poets, or kings.