NAY, start not from the banquet where the red wine foams
for thee—
Though somewhat thick to perforate this epidermis be;
'Tis madness, when the bowl invites, to linger at the brink;
So haste thee, haste thee, timid one. Drink, pretty creature,
drink!
I tell thee, if these azure veins could boast the regal wine
Of Tudors or Plantagenets, the draught should still be thine!
Though round the goblet's beaded brim plebeian bubbles wink.
'Twill cheer and not inebriate. Drink, pretty creature, drink!
Perchance, reluctant being, I have placed thee wrong side up,
And the lips that I am chiding have been farthest from the cup.
I have waited long and vainly, and I cannot, cannot think
Thou wouldst spurn the oft-repeated call: Drink, pretty crea-
ture, drink!
While I watch'd thy patient struggles, and imagined thou wert
coy,
'Twas thy tail, and not thy features, that refused the proffer'd
joy.
I will but turn thee tenderly—nay, never, never shrink—
Now, once again the banquet calls: Drink, pretty creature
drink!