'Well,' Murmur'd one, 'Let whoso make or buy, My Clay with long Oblivion is gone dry: But fill me with the old familiar juice, Methinks I might recover by and by.'

'Why,' said another, 'Some there are who tell Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell The luckless Pots he marr'd in making - Pish! He's a Good Fellow, and '…

Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide, And wash the Body whence the Life has died, And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf, By some not unfrequented Garden…

Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot - I think a Sufi pipkin-waxing hot - 'All this of Pot and Potter - Tell me then, Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Po…