Wine, No. 5

Boiling in my spirit's veins With fierce indignation, From my bitterness of soul Springs self-revelation: Framed am I of flimsy stuff, Fit for levitation, Like a thin leaf which the wind Scatters from its station.

While it is the wise man's part With deliberation On a rock to base his heart's Permanent foundation, With a running river I Find my just equation, Which beneath the self-same sky Hath no habitation.

Carried am I like a ship Left without a sailor, Like a bird that through the air Flies where tempests hale her; Chains and fetters hold me not, Naught avails a jailer; Still I find my fellows out, Toper, gamester, railer.

To my mind all gravity Is a grave subjection; Sweeter far than honey are Jokes and free affection. All that Venus bids me do, Do I with erection, For she ne'er in heart of man Dwelt with dull dejection.

Down the broad road do I run, As the way of youth is; Snare myself in sin, and ne'er Think where faith and truth is; Eager far for pleasure more Than soul's health, the sooth is, For this flesh of mine I care, Seek not ruth where ruth is.

Prelate, most discreet of priests, Grant me absolution! Dear's the death whereof I die, Sweet my dissolution; For my heart is wounded by Beauty's soft suffusion; All the girls I come not nigh, Mine are in illusion.

'Tis most arduous to make Nature's self surrender; Seeing girls, to blush and be Purity's defender! We young men our longings ne'er Shall to stern law render, Or preserve our fancies from Bodies smooth and tender.

Who, when into fire he falls, Keeps himself from burning? Who within Pavia's walls Fame of chaste is earning? Venus with her finger calls Youths at every turning, Snares them with her eyes, and thralls With her amorous yearning.

If you brought Hippolitus To Pavia Sunday, He'd not be Hippolitus On the following Monday; Venus there keeps holiday Every day as one day; 'Mid these towers in no tower dwells Venus Verecunda.

In the second place I own To the vice of gaming: Cold indeed outside I seem, Yet my soul is flaming: But when once the dice-box hath Stripped me to my shaming, Make I songs and verses fit For the world's acclaiming.

In the third place, I will speak Of the tavern's pleasure; For I never found nor find There the least displeasure; Nor shall find it till I greet Angels without measure, Singing requiems for the souls In eternal leisure.

In the public-house to die Is my resolution; Let wine to my lips be nigh At life's dissolution: That will make the angels cry, With glad elocution, "Grant this toper, God on high, Grace and absolution!"

With the cup the soul lights up, Inspirations flicker; Nectar lifts the soul on high With its heavenly ichor: To my lips a sounder taste Hath the tavern's liquor Than the wine a village clerk Waters for the vicar.

Nature gives to every man Some gift serviceable; Write I never could nor can Hungry at the table; Fasting, any stripling to Vanquish me is able; Hunger, thirst, I liken to Death that ends the fable.

Nature gives to every man Gifts as she is willing; I compose my verses when Good wine I am swilling, Wine the best for jolly guest Jolly hosts are filling; From such wine rare fancies fine Flow like dews distilling.

Such my verse is wont to be As the wine I swallow; No ripe thoughts enliven me While my stomach's hollow; Hungry wits on hungry lips Like a shadow follow, But when once I'm in my cups, I can beat Apollo.

Never to my spirit yet Flew poetic vision Until first my belly had Plentiful provision; Let but Bacchus in the brain Take a strong position, Then comes Phoebus flowing in With a fine precision.

There are poets, worthy men, Shrink from public places, And in lurking-hole or den Hide their pallid faces; There they study, sweat, and woo Pallas and the Graces, But bring nothing forth to view Worth the girls' embraces.

Fasting, thirsting, toil the bards, Swift years flying o'er them; Shun the strife of open life, Tumults of the forum; They, to sing some deathless thing, Lest the world ignore them, Die the death, expend their breath, Drowned in dull decorum.

Lo! my frailties I've betrayed, Shown you every token, Told you what your servitors Have against me spoken; But of those men each and all Leave their sins unspoken, Though they play, enjoy to-day, Scorn their pledges broken.

Now within the audience-room Of this blessed prelate, Sent to hunt out vice, and from Hearts of men expel it; Let him rise, nor spare the bard, Cast at him a pellet; He whose heart knows not crime's smart, Show my sin and tell it!

I have uttered openly All I knew that shamed me, And have spued the poison forth That so long defamed me; Of my old ways I repent, New life hath reclaimed me; God beholds the heart—'twas man Viewed the face and blamed me.

Goodness now hath won my love, I am wroth with vices; Made a new man in my mind, Lo, my soul arises! Like a babe new milk I drink— Milk for me suffices, Lest my heart should longer be Filled with vain devices.

Thou Elect of fair Cologne, Listen to my pleading! Spurn not thou the penitent; See, his heart is bleeding! Give me penance! what is due For my faults exceeding I will bear with willing cheer, All thy precepts heeding.

Lo, the lion, king of beasts, Spares the meek and lowly; Toward submissive creatures he Tames his anger wholly. Do the like, ye powers of earth, Temporal and holy! Bitterness is more than's right When 'tis bitter solely.