OAutumn, laden with fruit, and stained With the blood of grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe, And all the daughters of the year shall dance! Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

-Blake,William
  Poetical Sketches,'To  Autumn'.

  The maid (and thereby hangs a tale) For such a maid no Whitson-ale Could ever yet produce: No grape that's kindly ripe, could be So round, so plump, so soft as she, Nor half so full of juice.

-Suckling, SirJohn
  'Ballad: Upon aWedding'.

Beulah, peel me a grape.

-West, Mae
  I'm NoAngel.