And sing hy trololey lolly.
In love, ’tis true, with Spanish wine,
Or the French juice Incarnadine;
But truly not with your sweet Face,
This dimple, or that hidden grace,
Ther’s far more sweetnesse in pure Wine,
Then in those Lips or Eyes of thine.
Chorus (Come, fill’s a cup of sherry, &c.
Your god[,] you say, can shoot so right,
Hee’l wound a heart ith darkest night: