Chap. XIV Of Poets That Used to Get Drunk
As wine is the poet’s great horse, so it must not be wondered at, that the major part of them fuddle their noses; for, in reality, they cannot properly be said to be mounted on their great horses, till they have drunk pretty heartily. These gentlemen speak then on horseback, for the discourse of poets is quite opposite to that of orators, which Horace says, is a discourse on foot1, but when they drink nothing we can only say, that they are mounted upon.
The attachment that Homer had to wine, appears in the frequent eulogiums he gives that liquor. And if we examine Anacreon never so little, we shall find his inclinations, as well as his verses, were divided between wine and love. As much delicacy and fine turns as one finds in his works, an honest man cannot see without indignation, but that they tend absolutely to debauch. One must drink, one must love. The moments that are not employed in the pleasures of the senses are lost. Pausanius tells us, that he saw at Athens the statue of Anacreon, which represented him drunk and singing.
The poet Philoxenus wished he had a neck as long as a crane, that he might the longer have the pleasure of swallowing wine, and enjoy its delicious taste.
Ion, the poet of Chios, was not much more sober in respect of wine, according to Ælian and Euripides.
Horace must by no means be forgotten, whose satires derive from the grape their sprightfulness and gaiety.
Timocreon of Rhodes, a comic poet in the 75th Olympiad, was a great drinker. Athenæus has given of him this epitaph:—
Multa bibens et multa vorans, mala plurima dicens
Multis hic jaceo Timocreon Rhodius.
To these we may add Alceus and Eunius, of whom we have already made mention; but what signifies this enumeration, since it is most certain, that almost all the poets in the world, of all ages, got drunk, which puts them under the protection of Bacchus. This made them heretofore in Rome celebrate once a year, in the month of March, a festival in honour to this God with solemn sacrifices. What Ovid2 has said on this point puts the matter out of all doubt:—
“Illa dies hæc est, qua te celebrare poetæ
Si modo non fallunt tempora, Bacche, solent,
Festaque odoratis innectunt tempora sertis
Et dicunt laudes ad tua vina tuas.
Inter quos memini, dum me mea fata sinebant,
Non invisa tibi pars ego sæpe fui.”
This is the day, unless the times are chang’d,
That poets us’d to sing in merry lays,
And with sweet garlands crown’d, promiscuous rang’d,
To thy rich wines, great Bacchus, chaunt thy praise.
With these gay chorists, when my fates were kind,
Free, unreserv’d, to thee, immortal power!
(The pleasing object fresh salutes my mind)
Without disguise a part I often bore.
1. Sermo pedestris.
2. Trist. v. 3.