What, have these dry lips drank
So deep of the sweets of pleasure—
Sub rosa,[577] but quite without measure—
That Montepulciano tastes rank?
Come, drink![578] ’twill bring the streaks
Of crimson back to your cheeks;[579]
Come, drink again to the saint[580]
Whose virtues you loved to paint,
Who stretched on her wifely bed,
With the tender gray expression