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And then, as grapes within a press

Are trod, I’d tread them; penniless

Should they be left, and foul worms feed

Upon them in their direful need,

Whilst on a dunghill should they lie

Naked, in filth and misery.

And those who, in my prosperous days,

Were foremost in my love and praise,

Would I most cruelly entreat,

And spurn like dogs beneath my feet,

Aye, grind them to the very earth,

And pill them till they were not worth

A clove of garlick—it would fain

My heart to see their need and pain,

And bring them to such dire distress

That they should on my footsteps press

Stamping with rage.

Regrets are vain;

Time flown can ne’er return again,

Nor could I, of all those who bowed

Before me ere my face was ploughed

With wrinkles, keep on one my hold,

My menace was a tale that’s told,

But, by the ribalds, I thereof

Was warned erewhile with many a scoff.

Believe you, much I wept therefor,

Aye, and shall weep for evermore,

Yet, when thereon I musing think,

Long draughts of joy supreme I drink

From memory’s well. Oh, dear delights!

Whereof the very thought excites

A thrill through every limb, as though

The merry life of long ago