The following appeared in one of John Keats' letters to his brother George, who was by then living in America, around 1819.

Now I like Claret whenever I can have Claret I must drink it.-'t is the only palate affair that I am at all sensual in. For really 't is so fine- it fills the mouth with a gushing freshness-then goes down cool and feverless-and the more ethereal Part of it mounts into the brain, not assaulting the cerebral apartments like a bully in a bad house looking for his trul and hurrying from door to door bouncing against the waistcoat (evidently he meant wainscoat); but rather walks like Aladin about his own enchanted palace so gently that you do not feel his step- Other wines of a heavy and spiritous nature transform a Man to a Silenus; this makes him a Hermes-and gives a Woman the soul and immortality of Ariadne.

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