And she takes for her toll
A payment in dull-witted bliss.
“Then drink, drink, drink, etc.
“Oh, your mistress for faith is your poison cup.
Your poison cup, with its juice of death.
She’ll hold you, ha! ha! till the Doomsday’s up,
In her passion’s embrace,
And so close to her face
That you’ll never get time for a breath.
“Then it’s drink, drink, drink,