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 Paradise? Let me ride on this sweet breeze and waft away thither.