I am a painter, a maker of pictures; every moment I shape a beauteous form, And then in thy presence I melt them all away. I call up a hundred phantoms and endue them with a spirit When I behold thy phantom, I cast them in the fire, Art thou the vintner’s cup-bearer or the enemy of him who is sober, Or is it thou who mak’st a ruin of every house I build? In thee the soul is dissolved, with thee it is mingled, So I will cherish the soul, because it has a perfume of thee