It may, at a greater venture, but confidently, be said in plain speech, that the Bacchus of auspicious birth induces ever to the worship of the loftier Deities.
Think as you will; forbear to come hauling up examples of malarious men, in whom these pourings of the golden rays of life breed fogs; and be moved, since you are scarcely under an obligation to hunt the meaning, in tolerance of some dithyrambic inebriety of narration (quiverings of the reverent pen) when we find ourselves entering the circle of a most magnetic polarity.

Take it for not worse than accompanying choric flourishes, in accord with Mr.Victor Radnor and Mr.Simeon Fenellan at their sipping of the venerable wine.
Seated in a cosy corner, near the grey City window edged with a sooty maze, they praised the wine, in the neuter and in the feminine; that for the glass, this for the widow-branded bottle: not as poets hymning; it was done in the City manner, briefly, part pensively, like men travelling to the utmost bourne of flying flavour (a dell in infinite nether), and still masters of themselves and at home.
Such a wine, in its capturing permeation of us, insists on being for a time a theme.
'I wonder!' said Mr.Radnor, completely restored, eyeing his half-emptied second glass and his boon-fellow.
'Low!' Mr.Fenellan shook his head.
'Half a dozen dozen left ?' 'Nearer the half of that.

And who's the culprit ?' 'Old days! They won't let me have another dozen out of the house now.' 'They'll never hit on such another discovery in their cellar, unless they unearth a fifth corner.' 'I don't blame them for making the price prohibitive.

And sound as ever!' Mr.Radnor watched the deliberate constant ascent of bubbles through their rose-topaz transparency.

He drank.