Here sit thee down,—give o’er that peeling wail,1
And as we quaff, beneath our vineyard’s screen,2
I’ll tell thee, lover, why I am serene,—3
Whilst thou appear’st so pensive and so pale ;4
Behold yon clusters—from the summer’s gale5
They seem to shrink with apprehensive mien,6
And midst the leaves, as fearing to be seen,7
E’en from the Sun, their blushing beauties veil ;8
Despite their coyness, with unsparing hand,9
Their leafy, green asylums we molest,10
And with this rosy juice, of magic bland,11
And potency celestial, so, are blest——12
I tell thee, I would have thee understand,13
That lips, like grapes, are moulded to be prest.14