The little circle of the stir he makes
Does lessen as it widens, until Death
Comes on, and straightway the round ripple is gone out.
The grave is a cup
Wherewith I dip up
My draughts from the lake of life.
(Death, loquitor.)
Death is the cup-bearer of Heaven,
God's Ganymede, and his cup is the
grave, and life is the wine that