Book XI, 57

Old Oenopion had loaded his belly with sweet-scented wine, but yet he did not lay aside the cup, still thirsty and blaming his own hand for not having ladled anything out of the crater. But the young men are snoring, and none has strength to reckon the number of the cups he goes on drinking, Drink, old man, and live. It was a vain saying of divine Homer’s that grey hairs are hard pressed by youth.