LXXXIX.

«Well,» murmured 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.»

This quatrain is inspired by C. 188 and O. 116:

At that moment when the plant of my existence shall be rooted up, And its branches scattered in all directions; If then they make a flagon of my clay, When they fill it with wine it will live again.

_Ref._: C. 188, S.P. 115.--N. 115.

When I am abased beneath the foot of Destiny, And am rooted up from the hope of life, Take heed that thou makest nothing but a goblet of my clay, Haply when it is full of wine I may revive.

_Ref._: O. 116, C. 345, L. 539, B. 534, S.P. 289, P. 227, B. ii. 385, T. 230, P. v. 146.--W. 330, N. 290, V. 579.