Now that the Spring hath fill’d our veynes
With kinde and actiue fire,
And made green Liu’ryes for the playnes,
and euery grove a Quire,
Sing we a Song of merry glee
and Bacchus fill the bowle:
1. Then heres to thee; 2. And thou to mee
and euery thirsty soule.
Nor Care nor Sorrow ere pay’d debt
nor never shall doe myne;