Whene’er I bib the wine down. Asleepe drop all my cares. A fig for fret. A fig for sweat. A fig care I for cares. Sith death must come, though I say nay. Why grieve my life’s days with affaires? Come, bib we then the wine down Of Bacchus faire to see; For alway while we bibbing be. Asleepe drop all our cares.
