When drinking your bumpers, ere fieldward you wend.[203]
’Tis sweet to be thought of by far-away dame,
One’s sweetheart, whose love’s set one’s heart in a flame.
While you are disporting with those you love best,
He’s eating his heart out; grief gives him no rest.
One bumper you’ll drink for the love of poor Poll,[204]
If only you wish him your love to extol.15
Or, thinking of him who’s in slavery kept,
Your bowl’s whole contents dash to earth, as though wept.
O where is the promise, and where is the oath,