And in their place, beneath them, bend
The goodly tenants of the vine.
Those purple cisterns,[66] fill’d to brim,
(And those green beauties by their side,)
Enrich the little seas that swim
In goblets, through the eventide.
’Round golden pedestals they cling,
Among th’ elect of every fruit:
Hear they, as ’twere, the glasses ting;
Burst they with joy, yet they are mute.