Hence burgundy, claret, and port,
   Away with old hock and madeira!
Too earthly ye are for my sport;
   There's a beverage brighter and clearer!
Instead of a pitiful rummer,
My wine overbrims a whole summer;
      My bowl is the sky,
      And I drink at my eye,
      Till I feel in the brain
      A Delphian pain --
Then follow, my Caius, then follow!
      On the green of the hill,
      We will drink our fill
      Of golden sunshine,
      Till our brains intertwine
With the glory and grace of Apollo!