The bitter hatred that I bear today Toward my father, very rightly too, Will cause him to survive the Wandering Jew,* As I begin to learn to my dismay. Nature, take note, see if you’re just or not: I asked him for a flask of common wine (He’s got a hundred barrels, the old swine!); He very nearly killed me on the spot. “I should have named Vernaccia smooth and mellow,” Said I, to test how far his rage would go; You won’t believe the way he spat and swore. And then I’m told I shouldn’t hate the fellow! But those who know one half of what I know Would say: “The scoundrel should be eaten raw.”