In this goblet of mine?
Wine! wine! wine! wine!
To the stream, do ye ask,
Shall my cup-bearer go?
No! no! no! no!
Let water its own frigid nature retain;
Since water it is, let it water remain!
Let it ripple and run in meandering rills,
And set the wheels going in brook-sided mills.
In the desert, where streams do but scantily run,