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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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