Catch, catch!

Keep watch

Lest it slip!

My game is the thirst, which I don’t want to catch.

But only to make it decamp with dispatch.

The goblet’s my bugle, which splendidly sounds

When I lustily blow; the bottle’s my hounds.

The table’s my forest and hunting-field green

When close set with covers for friends and me seen.

I blow on my bugle, and, loud though he cry,