Windle-Straws: VI

Nay, more! yet more, for my lips are fain;
No cups for a babe; I ask the whole
Deep draught that a God could hardly drain,
--Wine of your soul.

Pour! for the goblet is great I bring,
Not worthless, rough with youths at strife,
And men that toil and women that sing,
--It is all my life.