The bottle, to the wine, is of small matter;
Can pewter not conserve as well as glass?
The wine will either disappoint or flatter,
Fine crystal makes cheap fare taste no less crass;
But when I pressed the rarest of my vinery
In your exquisite vessel to ferment,
My cup (befitting, gem-encrusted finery)
Brimmed acrimonious quaff to my lament!
For bitter is the cup served with deceit
When poured from cherished vessels of affection,
To penalize the heart’s naive conceit
And taint love’s sweet bouquet with rank deception.
By this, dear Catador, you are forewarned:
Keep fine reserves well-corked and unadorned!