To his page

Go and chill my wine so well

that it's colder than an icicle!

Fetch Jeanne and have her bring

her lute to give me a song:

all three of us will dance to the sound.

And tell Barbe to come

with her hair in ringlets

like a frolicsome Italian woman!

Can't you see that time is passing?

I refuse to live in the tomorrow.

Page, come pour for me again

so that this big glass is brimming!

Cursed be those who engage in futile pining!

I don't agree with those old doctors;

my brain is never in good health

unless it's irrigated with plenty of wine!