You used to admire at confession,
Lies POISONED,[581] overhead!
Sit still[582]—or by Heaven, you die![583]
Face to face,[584] soul to soul, you and I
Have settled accounts in a fine
Pleasant fashion,[585] over our wine.
Stir not,[586] and seek not to fly—
Nay, whether or not, you are mine!
Thank Montepulciano[587] for giving
You death in such delicate sips;