Life of a Satyr
Just keep pouring the wine. Never mind the gold.
I would like to drink down a single cup of this wine, giving all the Cyclopes’ flocks in exchange for it, and then to leap from the Leucadian cliff into the brine, good and drunk with my eyebrows smoothed out. The man who does not enjoy drinking is mad: in drink one can raise this to a stand, catch a handful of breast and look forward to stroking her boscage, there’s dancing and forgetfulness of cares. Shall I not kiss such a drink and tell the bone-head Cyclops and his middle eye to go hang?