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.