It is my intention to die in a tavern,
Let wine be brought near my dying mouth.
So that the choirs of angels will say, when they come:
"May God look favorably upon this drinker."

In drinking-cups the lamp of the soul is kindled.
The heart soaked in nectar takes flight toward the heavens.
Wine in a tavern tastes sweeter to me 
Than that mixed with water by a cupbearer for his patron.

Nature gives to each his own part.
I've never been able to write when thirsty;
When I'm thirsty a single boy could overpower me,
I hate thirst and hunger like a funeral.

Nature gives to each his own gift.
While fashioning verses I drink good wine,
And since that in taverners' casks is even better
Such wine begets an abundance of words.

The kind of verses I make depends on the wine I drink;
I can make nothing except by taking sustenance.
The things I write when thirsty are absolutely worthless;
After goblets, I surpass Ovid himself in song.

I am never given the spirit of prophecy
Except when my belly is stuffed full;
When Bacchus takes charge of my brain's citadel,
Phoebus invades me and wondrous things are spoken.