Give me your hands, dear friends; and so farewell:
You, honest parson—sly Bob—testy Jack—
Gentle Sir Knight—bold Roger—Master Franklin—
All, all of you!—Call me your vintner still,
And I will brew you such a vintage as
Not all the saps that mount to nature’s sun
Can match in April magic. They who drink it—
Yes, though it be after a thousand years,
When this our shrine, which like the Pleiades
Now glitters, shall be bare and rasèd stone,