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The Cup.

XVII.

Vulcan come, thy hammer take,
And of burnisht silver make

12

(Not a glittering armour, for
What have we to do with war?
But) a large deep Bowle, and on it
I would have thee carve, (no Planet
Pleiads Waines nor Waggoners,
What have we to do with stars?
But to life exactly shape)
Clusters of the juicy grape;
Whilst brisk Love, their bleeding heads
Hand in hand with Bacchus treads.