Before you are taken in ambush
Order the rose-hued wine to be fetched;
You're not gold, you silly fool,
To be buried in the ground and then brought out again.
Lit.
O love, before death comes to make our bed,
Drink wine, red wind, red as the rose is red,
Our bodies are not gold that we should hope
For men to dig us up when we are dead.
Le Gallienne