To-day is but a breathing space, quaff wine!
Thou wilt not see again this life of thine;
So, as the world becomes the spoil of time,
Offer thyself to be the spoil of wine!
'Tis we who to wine's yoke our necks incline,
And risk our lives to gain the smiles of wine;
The henchman grasps the flagon by its throat
And squeezes out the lifeblood of the vine.
21. L. N. Line 3 is in metre 19.
Here in this tavern haunt I make my lair,
Pawning for wine, heart, soul, and all I wear,
Without a hope of bliss, or fear of bale,
Rapt above water, earth, and fire, and air.
Quoth fish to duck, «Twill be a sad affair,
If this brook leaves its channel dry and bare»;
To whom the duck, «When I am dead and roasted
The brook may run with wine for aught I care.»