Bring the bowl which you boast, Fill it up to the brim; 'Tis to him we love most, And to all who love him. Brave gallants, stand up, And avaunt ye, base carles! Were there death in the cup,...
There came three merry men from south, west, and north, Ever more sing the roundelay; To win the Widow of Wycombe forth, And where was the widow might say them nay? ...