Said one—“Folks of a surly Tapster tell,

And daub his Visage with the Smoke of Hell;

   They talk of some strict Testing of us— Pish!

He’s a Good Fellow, and ’twill all be well.”

Then said another with a long-drawn Sigh,

“My Clay with long oblivion is gone dry:

   But, fill me with the old familiar Juice,

Methinks I might recover by-and-bye!”

So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,

One spied the little Crescent all were seeking:

   And then they jogg’d each other, “Brother! Brother!

Hark to the Porter’s Shoulder-knot a-creaking!”

Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,

And wash my Body whence the Life has died,

   And in a Windingsheet of Vine-leaf wrapt,

So bury me by some sweet Garden-side.

That ev’n my buried Ashes such a Snare

Of Perfume shall fling up into the Air,

   As not a True Believer passing by

But shall be overtaken unaware.

Indeed the Idols I have loved so long

Have done my Credit in Men’s Eye much wrong:

   Have drown’d my Honour in a shallow Cup,