Frascatiamoci

Balmy April afternoon: clear blue skies, warmth of the sun on my nose, birds singing, verdery more verdant than ever, and the daffodils as Wordsworthian as they can be, given that they are 12 feet below sea level.
So, what to do? I put my lounger on the patio, erect my little side table, place a fluted glass on it, and pour myself a measure or two of chilled Frascati. I mean, what else but chilled white wine would a gentleperson drink on such a day as this?
The problem is only that white wine gives me a headache. I am beginning to think that, for once, it is too high a price to pay for beauty. Sorry, Butch.