A pretty game, my girl, 
To play with me so long; 
Until this other lover 
Comes dancing to thy song, 
And my affair is over. 

But love, though well adored, 
Is not my only note : 
So let thy false love-prattle 
Be in another man's throat 
That weaker man's death-rattle. 

Ah, such as thou, at last, 
Wilt take a false man's hand : 
Think kindly then of me, 
When thou'rt forsaken, and 
The shame sits on thy knee.