Not the lances of the Paynim, but the passage in the gale,
When the awful cry of 'Steward' from the windward and the
leeward,
From a hundred lips arises, when a hundred lips are pale!"
"Yes, I know you 're very sickly," said his lady, rather quickly;
But you 'll take a cup of sherris or a little Malvoisie,
When you get as far as Dover;—and when once you 're half-
seas over,
Why you 'll find yourself as jolly as you possibly can be."
So her lord and master started, just a trifle chicken-hearted,