But as a drink ’twill never go down.
All your hydromels and flips
Come not near these prudent lips.
All your sippings and sherbets,
And a thousand such pretty sweets,
Let your mincing ladies take ’em,
And fops whose little fingers ache ’em.
Wine, wine is your only drink!
Grief never dares to look at the brink.
Six times a year to be mad with wine,