The first glass is for myself, the second for my friends, the

In the eloquent and mischievous words of William Temple, the English theologian and philosopher, we find a reflection on human nature as profound as it is humorous: “The first glass is for myself, the second for my friends, the third for good humor, and the fourth for my enemies.” Though it seems, at first, a jest about drink, its meaning stretches far beyond the tavern table. For within this simple sequence of glasses lies a meditation on the balance between pleasure and restraint, companionship and folly, and the delicate line between joy and ruin. Temple’s wit, like that of the ancients, conceals wisdom — he does not glorify indulgence, but reveals the spiritual anatomy of excess, the way each sip draws us deeper into the passions of man.

The origin of this saying can be traced to Temple’s role as both clergyman and humanist — a man who walked between heaven and earth, who understood that to instruct the soul, one must first understand the heart. Living in an age when wine flowed freely among scholars and clergy alike, he saw that even the wisest men were bound by their appetites. His quip about the “four glasses” became a mirror of human experience: the first representing self-control, the second fellowship, the third joy, and the fourth, the dangerous tipping point where delight turns to recklessness. Thus, through humor, Temple offered a sermon on moderation, as subtle as it was sincere.

The ancients, too, knew this truth. The Greeks, lovers of wine and wisdom alike, spoke of Dionysus, the god of revelry, who granted ecstasy but demanded reverence. They warned that those who drank without measure invited madness, for pleasure without discipline becomes chaos. The philosopher Plato taught that wine, when shared among friends, could open the gates of honesty and affection, yet when abused, dissolved reason itself. The wise saw in the cup both medicine and poison — a symbol of life’s dual nature. And so, like Temple, they taught that joy must be tempered, that the spirit must learn to stop at the third glass before it reaches the fourth.

Consider the story of Alexander the Great, whose empire stretched farther than any before him, but whose downfall began not on the battlefield, but in a hall of drunken feasting. In his youth, he drank to celebrate victories; in his pride, he drank to drown fear; and in his rage, under the influence of the fourth glass, he slew his friend Cleitus, who had once saved his life. That night, the conqueror of worlds was conquered by his own desire. Later, stricken with remorse, Alexander wept — for he had learned too late that power and pleasure alike must be ruled, or they become tyrants. Temple’s words, written centuries later, carry the same warning through gentler means: that the fourth glass belongs not to joy, but to folly, and that those who reach for it may find enemies not around them, but within.

Yet Temple’s wit also honors the beauty of moderate joy — the first three glasses, which give life its warmth and music. The first glass, he says, is for oneself — the quiet pleasure of being alive, the satisfaction of one’s labor, the gratitude for simple blessings. The second is for friends, the sacred bond of fellowship where laughter and story flow freely. The third is for good humor, that divine spark of mirth which lightens burdens and reminds us of our shared humanity. These are not sins, but celebrations of life rightly lived. The danger comes only when we reach beyond gratitude into greed — when, unsatisfied with contentment, we drink from the cup of excess.

There is a rhythm in life, as in drink, that demands awareness. Every joy carries within it the seed of destruction if not met with balance. The one who knows when to stop — in speech, in pleasure, in ambition — possesses mastery over himself. This mastery, the ancients called sophrosyne, the harmony between desire and wisdom. It is the art of stopping at the third glass, of knowing that good humor is the summit of delight, and that to climb higher is to fall. Temple, in his jest, calls us to this very wisdom — to enjoy life’s gifts, but not to be enslaved by them.

So, my child of tomorrow, learn from William Temple’s laughter the lesson of restraint. Take your first glass with gratitude, your second with companionship, your third with joy — but beware the fourth, for it leads to sorrow disguised as pleasure. Celebrate, but stay awake; rejoice, but remain humble. In the end, true happiness is not found in the overflowing cup, but in the quiet mastery of when to set it down.

For the wisdom of Temple’s words is eternal: that life, like wine, must be sipped, not swallowed; that laughter must be tempered with reflection; and that the greatest strength of all lies not in indulgence, but in self-command. When you learn to stop before excess, you preserve not only your body but your soul — and in that restraint, you will find the rarest vintage of all: the peace of moderation and the joy of wisdom.