| So but of fortune backed I be, Hand on the Loved One's skirt I'll lay |
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| When the thought of thy face overpasseth The rosegarden red of the eye |
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| Ill we speak not nor inclining Practise to despite, not we |
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| Yon friend, by whom our dwelling A fay's abiding-place was |
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| No day for me, without Thy cheek subright, abideth |
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| The Sage with the shining water of wine His purification maketh |
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| Hand from skirt no more I'll sever Of yon cypress tall and straight |
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| Set the hand within that loveling's Tress of double ply one cannot |
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| What is it that this drunkenness On me of mine hath brought? |
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| Our Book, for this many a year, In pawn for the vinejuice red is |
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