Who can talk of want or warfare when the wine is in his head,Not of thee, good father Bacchus, and of Venus fair and bright?But should any dream of licence, there's a lesson may be read,How 'twas wine that drove the Centaurs with the Lapithae to fight.And the Thracians too may warn us; truth and falsehood, good and ill,How they mix them, when the wine-god's hand is heavy on them laid!Never, never, gracious Bacchus, may I move thee 'gainst thy will,Or uncover what is hidden in the verdure of thy shade!Silence thou thy savage cymbals, and the Berecyntine horn;In their train Self-love still follows, dully, desperately blind,And Vain-glory, towering upwards in its emptyheaded scorn,And the Faith that keeps no secrets, with a window in its mind.Cupid's mother, cruel dame,And Semele's Theban boy, and Licence bold,Bid me kindle into flameThis heart, by waning passion now left cold.O, the charms of Glycera,That hue, more dazzling than the Parian stone!O, that sweet tormenting play,That too fair face, that blinds when look'd upon!