The first cup moistens my lips and throat;
The second cup breaks my loneliness;
The third cup searches my barren entrail but to find therein some thousand volumes of odd ideographs;
The fourth cup raises a slight perspiration-all the wrongs of life pass out through my pores; At the fifth cup I am purified;
The sixth cup calls me to the realms of the immortals.
The seventh cup-ah, but I could take no more! I only feel the breath of the cool wind that raises in my sleeves.
Where is Elysium? Let me ride on this sweet breeze and waft away thither.