English poem
The Echo, Song XCII
by Anonymous
From night till morn I take my glass, In hopes to forget my Chloe; But as I take the pleasing draught, She's ne'er the less before me. Ah! no, no, no, wine cannot cure The pain I endure for my Chloe.
To wine I flew, to ease the pain Her beauteous charms created; But wine more firmly bound the chain, And love would not be cheated. Ah, no, &c.