What, would you leave me so unsatisfied,
A worker in Love’s vineyard ?
Oh, though I know you’ll say I must abide,
And serve out my sighing sentence.
You are hard.
Vines grow so slowly, grapes do not soon appear
The sun , like an impish lad,
Plays tricks upon the lowly.
Broiling and boiling , throughout Love’s long year.
When may I tease that vintage
From its source, in oozing drips ?
When will you raise Love’s glass
Up to your lips ?