Hand round the rosy wine;
Think not we'll taste the balmy cup
From any hand but thine.
No grape can such supply;
It steals its tint from Anna's cheek,
Its brightness from her eye.
Revenge from some baneful corner shall level a tale of dishonor at thee, which no innocence of heart or integrity of conduct shall set right. The fortunes of thy house shall totter; thy character which led the way to them shall bleed on every side of it; thy faith questioned; thy works belied; thy wit forgotten; thy learning trampled on. To wind up the last scene of thy tragedy, cruelty and cowardice, twin ruffians, hired and set on by malice in the dark, shall strike together at all thy infirmities and mistakes. The best of us, my dear lad, lie open there; and trust me, trust me Yorick, when, to gratify a private appetite, it is once resolved upon that an innocent and an helpless creature shall be sacrificed, 'tis an easy matter to pick up sticks enough from any thicket where it has strayed, to make a fire to offer it up with.
Sterne.
