And waits for his idle thoughts to come;
Or carve the sword hilt, or merry drum,
Or the flaring edge of a curious can,
Fit for the lips of a bearded man:
With vines and grapes in a cunning wreath,
Where the peering satyrs wink beneath,
And catch around quaintly knotted stems
At flying nymphs by their garment hems.
. . . . . .
O carve you something of solid worth—