My heart, the fool, clutches for the tide of that sweet sickness
fly to that wine you gaunted ghost in my beating breast!
Drink the dregs and drown out the bread
When you have had your fill, you fool
you will be sickened still.

My mind, the coward, hides a midst its multitude of arms
what a petty prisoner you have become to fear!
Take your leave when you have nothing left for the taking
and when you regain your pride and call it passion 
you will be found out, weak and frail still.