I Pray Thee, By The Gods Above, Give Me The Mighty Bowl I Love, And Let Me Sing, In Wild Delight, "I Will--I Will Be Mad To-Night!" Alcmaeon Once, As Legends Tell, Was Frenzied By The Fiends Of Hell; Orestes, Too, With Naked Tread, Frantic Paced The Mountain-Head; And Why? A Murdered Mother'S Shade Haunted Them Still Where'Er They Strayed. But Ne'er Could I A Murderer Be, The Grape Alone Shall Bleed For Me; Yet Can I Shout, With Wild Delight, "I Will--I Will Be Mad To-Night." Alcides' Self, In Days Of Yore, Imbrued His Hands In Youthful Gore, And Brandished, With A Maniac Joy, The Quiver Of The Expiring Boy: And Ajax, With Tremendous Shield, Infuriate Scoured The Guiltless Field. But I, Whose Hands No Weapon Ask, No Armor But This Joyous Flask; The Trophy Of Whose Frantic Hours Is But A Scattered Wreath Of Flowers, Ev'N I Can Sing, With Wild Delight, "I Will--I Will Be Mad To-Night!"