But the Wine-press of Los is eastward¹ of Golgonooza， before the Seat

    Of Satan： Luvah laid the foundation， and Urizen finish'd it in howling woe².

    How red the Sons and Daughters of Luvah！ here they tread the grapes，

    Laughing and shouting， drunk with odours； many fall， o'erwearièd；

    Drown'd in the wine is many a youth and maiden³： those around

    Lay them on skins of tigers and of the spotted⁴ leopard⁵ and the wild ass⁶，

    Till they revive； or bury them in cool grots， making lamentation⁷.

    This Wine-press is call'd War on Earth： it is the Printing-Press

    Of Los； and here he lays his words in order above the mortal brain，

    As cogs are form'd in a wheel to turn the cogs of the adverse⁸ wheel.

    Timbrels and violins sport round the Wine-presses； the little Seed，

    The sportive Root， the Earth-worm， the Gold-beetle， the wise Emmet

    Dance round the Wine-presses of Luvah； the Centipede is there，

    The Ground-spider with many eyes， the Mole⁹ clothèd in velvet¹⁰，

    The ambitious Spider in his sullen¹¹ web， the lucky Golden-spinner，

    The Earwig arm'd， the tender Maggot， emblem¹² of immortality¹³，

    The Flea¹⁴， Louse， Bug¹⁵， the Tape-worm； all the Armies of Disease，

    Visible or invisible to the slothful， Vegetating¹⁶ Man；

    The slow Slug， the Grasshopper¹⁷， that sings and laughs and drinks ——

    Winter comes： he folds his slender bones without a murmur¹⁸.

    The cruel Scorpion¹⁹ is there， the Gnat²⁰， Wasp²¹， Hornet， and the Honey-bee，

    The Toad²² and venomous Newt， the Serpent cloth'd in gems²³ and gold：

    They throw off their gorgeous raiment： they rejoice with loud jubilee²⁴，

    Around the Wine-presses of Luvah， naked and drunk with wine.

    There is the Nettle²⁵ that stings with soft down， and there

    The indignant Thistle， whose bitterness is bred in his milk，

    Who feeds on contempt of his neighbour； there all the idle Weeds，

    That creep around the obscure places， show their various limbs

    Naked in all their beauty， dancing round the Wine-presses.

    But in the Wine-presses the Human grapes sing not nor dance！

    They howl and writhe²⁶ in shoals of torment²⁷， in fierce flames consuming，

    In chains of iron and in dungeons²⁸， circled with ceaseless fires，

    In pits and dens²⁹ and shades of death， in shapes of torment and woe ——

    The plates， and screws， and racks， and saws， and cords， and fires and cisterns³⁰，

    The cruel joys of Luvah's Daughters， lacerating with knives

    And whips their Victims， and the deadly sport of Luvah's Sons.

    They dance around the dying， and they drink the howl and groan³¹；

    They catch the shrieks³² in cups of gold， they hand them to one another：

    These are the sports of love， and these the sweet delights of amorous³³ play，

    Tears of the grape， the death-sweat of the cluster， the last sigh

    Of the mild youth who listens to the luring³⁴ songs of Luvah.

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