| Quoth the wine-seller old yesterday |
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| To the gard'ner, if the five-days Commerce of the rose behoveth |
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| Since that thy blessed shadow On my existence fell |
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| Though in ferment, like the wine-jar, For the heart a-fire, am I |
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| The Sleep of that seductive eye Of thine is not for nought |
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| I'm drunken still with yonder Curled browlock's fragrant air of thine |
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| She went and aware of her going Her lovers distraught made not |
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| My soul longed sore that my heart's need Should be fulfilled; and 'twas not |
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| Once again from myself hath wine ravished me: yea |
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| To quittance, for spiteful Fortune, My need arriveth not |
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