Whether old Homer tippled wine or beer, Julep or cider, history is not clear; But plain it is-the bard, though want to roam, But for one liquid, never had left home. What is it?
My first is a very uncomfortable state, In cold weather, it mostly abounds. My second's an instrument formed of hard steel, That will cause the stout foe to stagger and reel, And when used, is a symptom of hate. My whole is an author of greatest renown, Whose fame to the last day of time will go down. Who am I?
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