Fresh bottles crown'd the hospitable board,
Their jolly cheeks grew fast from white to red;
So pass'd the wine—their bark of life was moor'd
Quite safe in port, while head did nod to head
Familiar as the scabbard to the sword.
Now grew the conversation fast to fruit,
The fruit had grown already very fine;
The wine produced no whining, and, to boot;
No epicure repined about the pine;
But Love did all around his arrows shoot,