somewhat more to say, and I will say it seriously. [Rises. Drinkers and drunkards, gentle profligates, In praise of drinking to be curious Would task Apollo and his morning lyre, With fresh and dulcet brains and strings new-strung, So often has the art been sung and said: And yet good reasons for it scarce are known: One that consoles me I will offer you. We are immortals--all of us, divine; But people of inferior intellect. Wherein consists our chief capacity? In drinking deep: and some have sprightly toes. Well, here's my reason. What is genius? This: Perception of our bent and tireless zeal To track it out against the wind of fate. Have we not followed with a quenchless thirst Deep drinking? All. We have, most noble Bacchus. Silenus. Are we not plagued with headaches in the morning? All. We are, we are. Silenus. Some of our noses, too, are rubicund. All. Most true. Silenus. Our eyes are bulging, blazing amethysts. 1st Satyr. Grapes, bursting grapes. Silenus. The women's hair is dank as Panope's, Uncrisped and colourless, as limp as hay. Bacchantes. Alas! alas! Silenus. Their cheeks are hollow, and their arms are thin. Bacchantes. Alack-a-day! Silenus. We all are rebels. 1st Satyr. Outcasts. 1st Bacchante. Unsexed. 2nd Bacchante. Lost. Silenus. Then are we geniuses. Now, hear my reason. 1st Satyr. Your reason! 2nd Satyr. Why, we thought we had it now! Silenus. Erroneous conclusion; for to say That we have geniuses for drinking deep, And drink accordingly, is but to say We drink because we're dry: that's not enough. Reason there is for genius evermore, Could we discover it. 1st Satyr. Then tell us ours. Silenus. Patience and drink a little. [All drink. Mine alderliefest prodigals, the truth Is simply this, that we're inferior. 1st Bacchante. We know it. Silenus. Well said! That's it! We know it! Inferior, and we know it. Consider, then, What dreadful thought is this--what dire dismay-- Inferior, yet immortal! We tried, we failed; Failure was our familiar: so we chose, Rather than miss our aim eternally, To aim to miss, making success secure: That is the reason of our geniuses. Were we of those to whom death ministers, We might strain struggling, staggering--but no! What is the highest life that mortals live? A finger-length--time, fame, oblivion-- A slate, a pencil, and a sponge! Then drink. Song and dance, in which Silenus joins. Dance and sing, we are eternal; Let us still be mad with drinking: 'Tis a madness less infernal Than the madness caused by thinking. Death, cease whetting missiles for us; Lurk not in the grave's dark portal; Bring your dead, and join the chorus; Drink, for we are all immortal.