Anacreontic.

I filled to thee, to thee I drank, I nothing did but drink and fill; The bowl by turns was bright and blank, 'Twas drinking, filling, drinking still. At length I bade an artist paint Thy image in this ample cup, That I might see the dimpled saint, To whom I quaffed my nectar up. Behold, how bright that purple lip Now blushes through the wave at me; Every roseate drop I sip Is just like kissing wine from thee. And still I drink the more for this; For, ever when the draught I drain, Thy lip invites another kiss, And—in the nectar flows again. So, here's to thee, my gentle dear, And may that eyelid never shine Beneath a darker, bitterer tear Than bathes it in this bowl of mine!