XXXV

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XXXV

Upon the table in a trice

Of widow Clicquot or Moet

A blessed bottle, placed in ice,

For the young poet they display.

Like Hippocrene it scatters light,

Its ebullition foaming white

(Like other things I could relate)

My heart of old would captivate.

The last poor obol I was worth⁠—

Was it not so?⁠—for thee I gave,

And thy inebriating wave

Full many a foolish prank brought forth;

And oh! what verses, what delights,

Delicious visions, jests and fights!