The zenith of our love was sweeter times!
No greater prime has near engulfed my chest
And caught you by a love for dearest rhymes
That took of me as far, beyond my best.
Yet still your wines decrease with bitter taste
My presence is: as sun to wine seems turned
While age should better have mere better'd waste
The feet of grapes with all of guile have churned.
Blame not the connoisseur of liquid fun
His tastebuds have not waned nor lost his tone,
Nor filled his cellar store with more than one
Of vintage year with such unhappy loan:
Sour grapes within my cup near bleak and dry!
But I will drink to you alone to cry.
