“Nay”, quoth the Magian, “’tis not so; I draw my wine for one and all, “A cup for this, a score for that, e’en as his measure’s great or small:

“Who drinks one bowl hath scant delight; to poorest passion he was born; “Who drains the score must e’er expect to rue the headache of the morn.”

Safely he jogs along the way which ‘Golden Mean’ the sages call; Who scales the brow of frowning Alp must face full many a slip and fall.

Here èxtremes meet, anointed Kings whose crownèd heads uneasy lie, Whose cup of joy contains no more than tramps that on the dunghill die.

To fate-doomed Sinner born and bred for dangling from the gallows-tree; To Saint who spends his holy days in rapt’urous hope his God to see;