If man thou would’st be named,
Despise the silly creature.
Go, find an honest fellow;
Good claret set before thee:
Hold on till thou art mellow,
And then to bed in glory.
The plough, and John Barleycorn—once in a week just—or twice maybe, and I’ll be cold to all glances till wedding-time, if it comes.
[He moves back towards the plough. As he does so, Nell is heard singing, and he stops.]
Nell:
O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad,