| Roses come cull and to thorns, Soufi, that patchcoat of thine give |
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| Come, so the spirit's fragrance That I may retrace from that cheek |
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| Lo, by thy bright eye's magic, O happy-favoured fair |
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| Since that this boast I uttered, 'Tis forty years, in fine |
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| In thy footsteps' dust our faces Many a time and tide we've laid |
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| Up, skinker, and give me In hand the bowl! |
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| Though to the service of the King we bound are |
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| The Sheen of the season of youth Again on the garden glows |
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| We've cast off, for love of the winehouse, The usance of dawntide prayer |
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| Since that thine image we have, Of liquor for us what need is? |
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