Instead of watering meadows, the mad waves fling stones on their banks.

Then we reach the plains, where it is true many kinds of plants grow.

I was there in June, and made my jokes about the tiny fields, where small trees stood, serving as props for the vines.

It didn't look amiss, but the heat, Junker, the heat spoiled all pleasure.
And the dirt in the taverns, the vermin, and the talk about bravos, who shed the blood of honest Christians in the dark for a little paltry money.

If your tongue dries up in your mouth, you'll find nothing but hot wine, not a sip of cool beer.