1. Alas, how many a tavern I’ve stopped at by night,
Seeking revelry, to dispel my cares!

2. I served him wine, swearing it was licit,
A lawful potion, though it would burden me with sin.

3. In truth the falcon rests not in his nest at night,
But rather he makes his abode in a cleft,

4. Spreading his wings there when night casts
Its darkness over his beak’s tip.

5. If after his mother’s night and a night
Of wailing he’s still a falcon, shame on him!

6. With both hands she clutches his pliant nape
When her riding beast shies from his boldness.