And you never of love need think;
And it’s fol de rol,
For who has use for a heart?
With a cup that loves your lip,
You need fear no faithless slip,
Nor feel the pangs of any pains that dart.”
Not being at all certain that they knew what he meant, the company applauded with great enthusiasm.
“But, my dear sir,” said a nobleman, with a head on him hardly bigger nor less wrinkled than a last winter’s apple, and a stomach as big as a tun, “you have not tasted a drink to-night. Demme, look at me, sir. I love my sack and my wine. I know nothing of your poison cup, and I have no wish to, demme. But, sir, I think you have no bowels for drinking.”
“My lord, you furnish the bowels and I will furnish the brains to know about drinking,” said Adam. “By my faith, no drink ever yet went to your head.”
“No, sir! I’m proud of it, demme,” said his lordship. “I have drunk up a fortune, and where is it?—It’s gone.”