Rosy Wine

My Mistress' frowns are hard to bear,
And yet I will not quite despair;
Nor think, because her lips I leave,
There's nothing for me but to grieve.
— The goblet's lip awaiteth mine:
My grief I quench in rosy wine.

Dame Fortune too has faithless gone:
But let her go! I will not moan.
Draw in your chair, old Friend! and see
What rating Fortune has for me.
Clink yet again your glass with mine, —
To Fortune's health, in rosy wine!

Pass, Fortune! pass, thou fickle jade!
One fortunately constant maid
Smiles on me yet; though loves depart,
Her presence gladdeneth my heart.
Thy tendrils cling, O loving Vine!
My griefs I quench in rosy wine.