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.