Without me, e’en a throne thou’dst scorn—
With me, contented beg!
False maid! ’tis not that I’m forsworn,—
The boot’s on t’other leg.
Amidst the revel thou wast gay,
The blithest with the song!
Though thou believ’dst me far away,
An exile at Boulogne.
’Twas then, and not till then, my heart
To love thee did refuse;