I Drink Of The Ale Of Southwark, I Drink Of The Ale Of Chepe; At Noon I Dream On The Settle; At Night I Cannot Sleep; For My Love, My Love It Groweth; I Waste Me All The Day; And When I See Sweet Alison, I Know Not What To Say. The Sparrow When He Spieth His Dear Upon The Tree, He Beateth-To His Little Wing; He Chirketh Lustily; But When I See Sweet Alison, The Words Begin To Fail; I Wot That I Shall Die Of Love--An I Die Not Of Ale. Her Lips Are Like The Muscadel; Her Brows Are Black As Ink; Her Eyes Are Bright As Beryl Stones That In The Tankard Wink; But When She Sees Me Coming, She Shrilleth Out--"Te-Hee! Fye On Thy Ruddy Nose, Cousin, What Lackest Thou Of Me?" "Fye On Thy Ruddy Nose, Cousin! Why Be Thine Eyes So Small? Why Go Thy Legs Tap-Lappetty Like Men That Fear To Fall? Why Is Thy Leathern Doublet Besmeared With Stain And Spot? Go To. Thou Art No Man (She Saith)--Thou Art A Pottle-Pot!" "No Man," I'Faith. "No Man!" She Saith. And "Pottle-Pot" Thereto! "Thou Sleepest Like Our Dog All Day; Thou Drink'St As Fishes Do." I Would That I Were Tibb The Dog; He Wags At Her His Tail; Or Would That I Were Fish, In Truth, And All The Sea Were Ale! So I Drink Of The Ale Of Southwark, I Drink Of The Ale Of Chepe; All Day I Dream In The Sunlight; I Dream And Eke I Weep, But Little Lore Of Loving Can Any Flagon Teach, For When My Tongue Is Loos'D Most, Then Most I Lose My Speech.