Free from the Treachery of your eyes,
Now to be caught and made a prize,
No, Lady, ’tis not all your art,
Can make me and my freedome part.
Chorus.
Come, fill’s a cup of sherry, and let us be merry,
There shall nought but pure wine
Make us love-sick or pine,
Wee’l hug the cup and kisse it, we’l sigh when ere we misse it;
For tis that, that makes us jolly,