Then said another--«Surely not in vain My substance from the common Earth was ta'en, That he who subtly wrought me into Shape Should stamp me back to common Earth again.» LXII. Another said--«Why, ne'er a peevish Boy, Would break the Bowl from which he drank in Joy; Shall He that _made_ the Vessel in pure Love And Fancy, in an after Rage destroy!» LXIII. None answer'd this; but after Silence spake A vessel of a more ungainly Make: «They sneer at me for leaning all awry; What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?» LXIV. 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.» LXV. 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!» LXVI. 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!» * * * * * LXVII. 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. LXVIII. 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. LXIX. 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, And sold my Reputation for a Song. LXX. Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before I swore--but was I sober when I swore? And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore. LXXI. And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel, And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour--well, I often wonder what the Vintners buy One half so precious as the Goods they sell. LXXII. Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close! The nightingale that in the Branches sang, Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows! LXXIII. Ah, Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, Would not we shatter it to bits--and then Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire! LXXIV. Ah, Moon of my Delight who know'st no wane, The Moon of Heav'n is rising once again: How oft hereafter rising shall she look Through this same Garden after me--in vain! LXXV. And when Thyself with shining Foot shall pass Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass, And in thy joyous Errand reach the Spot Where I made one--turn down an empty Glass!