156 
THE WILD VINE. 
Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood. 
Trifling his ivy dart, in dancing mood, 
With sidelong laughing; 
And little rills of crimson wine imbrued 
His plump white arms and shoulders, enough white 
For Venus’ pearly bite ; 
And near him roe Silenus, on his ass, 
Pelted with flowers, as he on did pass. 
Keats. 
