Ay, now his best becomes his worst, For honey cannot quench his thirst, Though he should eat until he burst; But, ah, the skies are kindly, And from their tender depths of blue They send their silver-sliding dew. So Bill thrusts out his tongue anew And waits to catch it--blindly! _Chorus:_ For ah, the stars are kindly! And sometimes, with a shower of rain, They strive to ease their prisoner's pain: Then Bill thrusts out his tongue again With never a grace, the sinner! And day and night and day goes by, And never a comrade comes anigh, And still the honey swells as high For supper, breakfast, dinner! _Chorus:_ Yet Bill has grown no thinner! The young moon grows to full and throws Her buxom kiss upon his nose, As nightly over the tree she goes, And peeps and smiles and passes, Then with her fickle silver flecks Our old black galleon's dreaming decks; And then her face, with nods and becks, In midmost ocean glasses. _Chorus:_ 'Twas ever the way with lasses! Ah, Didymus, hast thou won indeed That Paradise which is thy meed? (Thy tale not all that run may read!) Thy sweet hath now no leaven! Now, like an onion in a cup Of mead, thou liest for Jove to sup, Could Polyphemus lift thee up With Titan hands to heaven! _Chorus:_ This great oak-cup to heaven! The second canto ceased; and, as they raised Their wine-cups with the last triumphant note, Bacon, undaunted, raised his grating voice-- "This honey which, in some sort, may be styled The Spettle of the Stars ..." "Bring the Canary!" Ben Jonson roared. "It is a moral wine And suits the third, last canto!" At one draught John Davis drained it and began anew. CANTO THE THIRD A month went by. We were hoisting sail! We had lost all hope of Bill; Though, laugh as you may at a seaman's tale, He was fast in his honey-comb still! And often he thinks of the chaplain's word In the days he shall see no more,-- How the Sweet, indeed, of the Sour hath need; And the Sea, likewise, of the Shore.