Passages from Redi's Dithyrambic Poem of Bacchus in Tuscany

Give me, give me Buriano, Trebbiano, Colombano, Give me bumpers, rich and clear! 'Tis the true old Aurum Potabile Gilding life when it wears shabbily: Helen's old Nepenthe 'tis, That in the drinking Swallowed thinking, And was the receipt for bliss. Thence it is, that ever and aye, When he doth philosophise, Good old glorious Rucellai Hath it for light unto his eyes, He lifteth it, and by the shine Well discerneth things divine; Atoms with their airy justles, And all manner of corpuscles; And, as through a crystal sky-light, How morning differeth from evening twilight; And further telleth us the reason why go Some stars with such a lazy light, and some with a vertigo.

Oh how widely wandereth he, Who in search of verity Keeps aloof from glorious wine! Lo the knowledge it bringeth to me! For Barbarossa, this wine so bright, With its rich red look and its strawberry light, So inviteth me, So delighteth me, I should infallibly quench my inside with it, Had not Hippocrates, And old Andromachus, Strictly forbidden it, And loudly chidden it, So many stomachs have sicken'd and died with it. Yet discordant as it is, Two good biggins will not come amiss; Because I know, while I'm drinking them down, What is the finish and what is the crown. A cup of good Corsican Does it at once; Or a glass of old Spanish Is neat for the nonce: Quackish resources are things for a dunce. Talk of Chocolate! Talk of Tea! Medicines made, ye gods! as they are, Are no 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 Proserpina all three presented it. If the Mussulman in Asia Doats on a beverage so unseemly, I differ with the man extremely.

There's a squalid thing, called beer:— The man whose lips that thing comes near Swiftly dies; or falling foolish, Grows, at forty, old and owlish. She that in the ground would hide her, Let her take to English cyder: He who'd have his death come quicker, Any other northern liquor. Those Norwegians and those Laps Have extraordinary taps: Those Laps especially have strange fancie; To see them drink, I verily think Would make me lose my senses. But a truce to such vile subjects, With their impious, shocking objects. Let me purify my mouth In a 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.

ICE NECESSARY TO WINE. You know Lamporecchio, the castle renown'd For the gardener so dumb, whose works did abound; There's a topaz they make there; pray let it go round. Serve, serve me a dozen, But let it be frozen; Let it be frozen and finished with ice, And see that the ice be as virginly nice, As the coldest that whistles from wintery skies. Coolers and cellarets, crystal with snows, Should always hold bottles in ready repose. Snow is good liquor's fifth element; No compound without it can give content: For weak is the brain, and I hereby scout it, That thinks in hot weather to drink without it. Bring me heaps from the Shady Valley: Bring me heaps Of all that sleeps On every village hill and alley. Hold there, you satyrs, Your beard-shaking chatters, And bring me ice duly, and bring it me doubly, Out of the grotto of Monte di Boboli. With axes and pickaxes, Hammers and rammers, Thump it and hit it me, Crack it and crash it me, Hew it and split it me, Pound it and smash it me, Till the whole mass (for I'm dead-dry, I think) Turns to a cold, fit to freshen my drink. If with hot wine we insack us, Say our name's not Bacchus. If we taste the weight of a button, Say we're a glutton. He who, when he first wrote verses, Had the Graces by his side, Then at rhymers' evil courses Shook his thunders far and wide, (For his great heart rose and burn'd, Till his words to thunder turn'd) He, I say, Menzini, he, The marvellous and the masterly, Whom the leaves of Phœbus crown, Alterable Anacreon,— He shall give me, if I do it, Gall of the satiric poet, Gall from out his blackest well, Shuddering, unescapeable. But if still, as I ought to do, I love my wine iced through and through, If I will have it (and none beside) Superultrafrostified, He that reigns in Pindus then, Visible Phœbus among men, Filicaia, shalt exalt Me above the starry vault; While the other swans divine, Who swim with their proud hearts in wine, And make their laurel groves resound With the names of the laurel-crown'd, All shall sing, till our goblets ring, Long live Bacchus our glorious King! Evoè! let them roar away! Evoè! Evoè! Evoè! let the lords of wit Rise and echo, where they sit, Where they sit enthroned each, Arbiters of sovereign speech, Under the great Tuscan dame, Who sifts the flour and gives it fame. Let the shout by Segni be Register'd immortally, And dispatch'd by a courier A monsieur l'Abbé Regnier. 6em BACCHUS GROWS MUSICAL IN HIS CUPS. 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 Far o'er 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 venomous bliss. The grim god of war and the arrowy boy Double-gallant me with desperate joy: Love, love, and a fight! I must make me a knight; I must make me thy knight of the bath, fair friend, A knight of the bathing that knows no end. 6em GOOD WINE A GENTLEMAN. Oh boys, this Tuscan land divine Hath such a natural talent for wine, We'll fall, we'll fall On the barrels and all; We'll fall on the must, we'll fall on the presses, We'll make the boards groan with our grievous caresses; No measure, I say; no order, but riot; No waiting, nor cheating; we'll drink like a Sciot: Drink, drink, and drink when you've done; Pledge it, and frisk it, every one; Chirp it and challenge it, swallow it down; He that's afraid, is a thief and a clown. Good wine's a gentleman; He speedeth digestion all he can: No headache hath he, no headache, I say, For those who talked with him yesterday. If Signor Bellini, besides his apes, Would anatomise vines, and anatomise grapes, He'd see that the heart that makes good wine Is made to do good, and very benign.

THE PRAISE OF CHIANTI WINE, AND DENOUNCEMENT OF WATER. True son of the earth is Chianti wine, Born on the ground of a gypsy vine; Born on the ground for sturdy souls, And not the lank race of one of your poles. I should like to see a snake Get up in August out of a brake, And fasten with all his teeth and caustic Upon that sordid villain of a rustic, Who, to load my Chianti's haunches With a parcel of feeble bunches, Went and tied her to one of these poles,— Sapless sticks without any souls!

Like a king In his conquering, Chianti wine with his red flag goes Down to my heart, and down to my toes: He makes no noise, he beats no drums; Yet pain and trouble fly as he comes. And yet a good bottle of Carmignan, He of the two is the merrier man; He brings from heav'n such a rain of joy, I envy not Jove his cups, old boy. Drink, Ariadne; the grapery Was the warmest and brownest in Tuscany: Drink, and whatever they have to say, Still to the Naiads answer nay; For mighty folly it were, and a sin, When you drink Carmignan to put water in.

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, grown 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 vargins. 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.

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. 6em A TUNE ON THE WATER. 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. 6em MONTEPULCIANO ENTHRONED. A small glass, and thirsty! Be sure never ask it; Man might as well serve up soup in a basket. This my broad, and this my high Bacchanalian butlery Lodgeth not, nor doth admit Glasses made with little wit; Little bits of would-be bottles Run to seed in strangled throttles. Such things are for invalids, Sipping dogs that keep their beds. As for shallow cups like plates, Break them upon shallower pates. Such glassicles, And vesicles, And bits of things like icicles, Are toys and curiosities For babies and their gaping eyes; Things for dames to put in caskets, Or beside 'em in work-baskets; I don't mean those who keep their coaches, But those who make grand foot-approaches, With flower'd gowns, and fine huge broaches. 'Tis in a magnum's world alone The Graces have room to sport and be known. Fill, fill, let us all have our will: But with what, with what, boys, shall we fill? Sweet Ariadne—no, not that one,—ah no; Fill me the manna of Montepulciano: Fill me a magnum, and reach it me.—Gods! How it slides to my heart by the sweetest of roads! Oh, how it kisses me, tickles me, bites me! Oh, how my eyes loosen sweetly in tears! I'm ravish'd! I'm rapt! Heaven finds me admissible! Lost in an ecstasy! blinded! invisible!

Hearken all earth! We, Bacchus, in the might of our great mirth, To all who reverence us, and are right thinkers;— Hear, all ye drinkers! Give ear and give faith to our edict divine— MONTEPULCIANO 'S THE KING OF ALL WINE.

At these glad sounds, The Nymphs, in giddy rounds, Tossing their ivy diadems and grapes, Echoed the triumph in a thousand shapes. The Satyrs would have join'd them; but alas! They couldn't; for they lay about the grass, As drunk as apes.