| 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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| My heart is run wild and I, also, Poor wretch, am witless sheer |
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| God in the rose-time keep me From e'er renouncing wine! |
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| If the enemies' reproaches In my self I meditate |
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| Go thy ways, preacher! In vain This all thy clamour and prate is |
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