Song
M
y goblet’s golden lips are dry,
And, as the rose doth pine
For dew, so doth for wine
My goblet’s cup;
Rain, O! rain, or it will die;
Rain, fill it up!
Arise, and get thee wings to-night,
Ætna! and let run o’er
Thy wines, a hill no more,
But darkly frown
A cloud, where eagles dare not soar,
Dropping rain down.