See they digest their food and drink,
And land them, even as they leave us, in the pink!
Thou, too, whose favour they depend so much on
(Fortune, I mean) in this precarious game,
Oh let there be no blob on their escutcheon,
Or, if a few occur, accept the blame;
Do not, of course, abuse thy powers;
We'd have the best side win, but let that side be ours.
Summer awaits them there while we are wheezing
By empty hearths through bitter days and black;