Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards
The gorgeous psychopomp summoned and dismissed
The murmurous haunt of flies
Attracted no doubt by the perfume of death

Death with his comely features
Not the hooded villain of medieval fright
A fine countenance a little too angular
A luscious fragrance a little too strong

No wonder he is beckoned by the lounging portraitists
He joins at length the stately minuet
Too languidly disposed
For the exertions of lusty clog dancers

The more impressive the opulent cartouche
Should arise from such splendid lassitude
Do not imagine he seems to have inscribed
The fury of the crown of vines