1.
There is no tre that growe
On earthe, that I do knowe,
More worthie praise I trowe,
Than is the vyne,
Whos grapes, as ye may rede,
Their licoure forthe dothe shede,
Wherof is made indede
All our good wyne.
And wyne, ye maye trust me,
Cause the men for to be
Merie, for so ye see
His nature is;
Then put asyde all wrathe,
For David showde us hathe,
Vinum letificat
Cor hominis.
2.
Wyne taken with excesse,
As Scripture dothe expresse,
Cause the great hevines
Unto the mynde:
But theie that take pleasure
To drinke it with measure,
No doute a great treasure
They shall it finde.
Then voide you all sadnes,
Drinke your wyne with gladnes,
To take thought is madnes,
And marke well this;
And put asyde all wrathe, &c. ut supra.
3.
How bringe ye that to pas
Cordis Jucunditas,
Is now and ever was
The lyfe of man.
Sithe that mirthe hathe no peare,
Then let us make good cheare,
And be you merie heare,
While that ye can;
And drinke well of this wyne,
While it is good and fyne,
And showe some outwarde syne
Of joye and blisse;
Expell from you all wrathe, &c. ut supra.
4.
This thinge full well ye ken,
Hevines dulleth men,
But take this medicien then,
Where’er ye come:
Refreshe yourself therewith.
For it was said long sithe,
That vinum acuit
Ingenium.
Then give not a chery
For sider nor perrye,
Wyne maketh man merie.
Ye knowe well this;
And put asyde all wrathe, &c. ut supra.
5.
In hope to have release
From all our hevines,
And mirthe for to encrease
Sum dele the more,
Pulsemus organa.
Simul cum cithara,
Vinum et musica
Vegetabit cor.
But sorowe, care, and strife
Shortnethe the days of life,
Bothe of man and of wyfe
It will not mis;
Then put asyde all wrathe, &c. ut supra.
6.
A merie herte in cage
Makethe a lustie age,
As telleth us the sage,
Ever for the noynes;
Because we should delight
In mirthe, bothe daye and night,
He saith an hevie fright
Driethe up the bones.
Wherfor, let us alwaye
Rejoice in God, I saye,
Our mirthe cannot decaye
If we do this,
And put asyde all wrathe, &c. ut supra.
7.
Nowe ye that be presente,
Laud God Omnipotent,
That hathe us given and sent
Our dalie foode,
When thorowe sinne we’re slaine,
He sent his son againe,
Us to redeeme from paine
By his sweete bloode,
And he is the trewe vyne,
From whome distill’d the wyne,
That boughte your soules and myne,
You knowe well this:
Then put asyde all wrathe,
For David showde us hathe
Vinum letificat
Cor hominis.
* * * * *