Most like the centre-spike of gold
Which burns deep in the blue-bell's womb
What time, with ardors manifold,
The bee goes singing to her groom,
Drunken and overbold.

XI.

Mere conchs! not fit for warp or woof!
Till cunning come to pound and squeeze
And clarify, -- refine to proof *2*
The liquor filtered by degrees,
While the world stands aloof.

XII.

And there's the extract, flasked and fine,
And priced and salable at last!
And Hobbs, Nobbs, Stokes, and Nokes combine
To paint the future from the past,
Put blue into their line. *3*

XIII.

Hobbs hints blue, -- straight he turtle eats:
Nobbs prints blue, -- claret crowns his cup:
Nokes outdares Stokes in azure feats, --
Both gorge. Who finished the murex up?
What porridge had John Keats?