It is not wine, it is not beer,
But it consoles my heart.
Fem. Min. [interrupting him.] I'll be hang'd if you don't mean the bottle of cherry-brandy that you stole out of the vaults in the Abbey cellar.
Trou. I mean!—Peace, wench, thou disturbest the current of my feelings.
[Fem. Min. attempts to lay hold of the bottle. Troubadour pushes her aside, and continues singing without interruption.
This cherry-bounce, this lov'd noyau,
My drink for ever be;
But, sweet my love, thy wish forego,
I'll give no drop to thee!
(Both together.)