I filled to thee, to thee I drank,

  I nothing did but drink and fill;

The bowl by turns was bright and blank,

  'Twas drinking, filling, drinking still.

At length I bade an artist paint

  Thy image in this ample cup,

That I might see the dimpled saint,

  To whom I quaffed my nectar up.

Behold, how bright that purple lip

  Now blushes through the wave at me;

Every roseate drop I sip

  Is just like kissing wine from thee.

And still I drink the more for this;

  For, ever when the draught I drain,

Thy lip invites another kiss,

  And—in the nectar flows again.

So, here's to thee, my gentle dear,

  And may that eyelid never shine

Beneath a darker, bitterer tear

  Than bathes it in this bowl of mine!