(lxxxix)


Address your glass, good Doctor: Here composed
The artist’s hand our mortal state; confined
This tonic, body of the work; assigned
This gin, the soul, its place, and here reposed
This ice, the animating chill; supposed
This lime, a sense of loss; pulp and rind
Unconsummated union, brain and mind.
This hand was yours. Your purpose is exposed.

You hesitate? But drink. In scarce an hour
The gin evaporates; the tonic’s fumed
The ice will melt; the bitter lime grow sour.
They’ve only mingled here to be consumed.
As we. Proceed. I have no further rhyme.
We have not wit, nor world enough; nor time.