Vulcan come, thy hammer take,
And of burnisht silver make
(Not a glittering armour, for
What have we to do with war?
But) a large deep Bowle, and on it
I would have thee carve (no Planet,
Pleiads , Waines nor Waggoners,
What have we to do with stars?
But to life exactly shape)
Clusters of the juicy grape;
Whilst brisk Love their bleeding heads
Hand in hand with Bacchus treads.