When great sorrow o'ertakes my wither'd heart,
And loneliness drives me with biting whip,
I shackle my sore horse behind my cart
And venture forth on love's comfortless trip.
Thy spirits and thine beauty's spark'ling eye
Do call unto me and offer sweet respite.
Thy palliative potions bring us nigh,
And this cuckold can forget all this night.
Wouldst my shrewd love be recompense enough
For thine intoxicating gifts and charms?
Or wouldst thou find me too churlish and gruff,
Lost in my forlorn state of old love's harms?
I wouldst have your company in my bed,
Though will make do with your wine in my head.