And you’ll never have need to think;
And it’s fol de rol,
And who has use for a brain?
With your cup that loves your lip,
You need fear no faithless slip,
And your heart will never know the stabs of pain.
“Oh your languorous maid is your glass of wine,
Your Lady Amour, with her ruby kiss.
She suffers no rivals, or thinking—in fine,
She owns all your soul