"I drank, but the draught of his glance, not wine, * And his swaying
gait swayed to sleep these eyne:
'Twas not grape juice grips me but grasp of Past * 'Twas not bowl
o'erbowled me but gifts divine:
His coiling curl-lets my soul ennetted * And his cruel will all my wits
outwitted.[FN#181]"