('Fais rafraîchir mon vin')

SINK the wine within the spring,
And cool it deep and long:
Send Jeanne to me, and let her bring
Her lute, to chant a song.
Three shall dance and one shall sing,
Call Barbe, that in the whirl
Her heavy tresses she may fling
Like a mad Tuscan girl.

See! the sun has dipped his head,
We may not live till morning;
Fill my cup, boy, till the bead
Run over with no warning.
Curse the dolt that slaves to get,
Curse doctor and divine;
My wits were never sober yet
Till they were washed with wine!