Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot—
I think a Sufi pipkin—waxing hot—
“All this of Pot and Potter—Tell me, then,
“Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?”
“Why,” said another, “Some there are who tell
“Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell
“The luckless Pots he marr’d in making—Pish!
“He’s a Good Fellow, and ’twill all be well.”
Ah, with the Grape my fading life provide,
And wash the Body whence the life has died,