The Captain mark'd his alter'd look,
And gave a squire the sign; 230
A mighty wassell-bowl he took,
And crown'd it high with wine.
'Now pledge me here, Lord Marmion:
But first I pray thee fair,
Where hast thou left that page of thine, 235
That used to serve thy cup of wine,
Whose beauty was so rare?
When last in Raby towers we met,
The boy I closely eyed,
And often mark'd his cheeks were wet, 240
With tears he fain would hide:
His was no rugged horse-boy's hand,
To burnish shield or sharpen brand,
Or saddle battle-steed;
But meeter seem'd for lady fair, 245
To fan her cheek, or curl her hair,
Or through embroidery, rich and rare,
The slender silk to lead:
His skin was fair, his ringlets gold,
His bosom--when he sigh'd, 250
The russet doublet's rugged fold
Could scarce repel its pride!
Say, hast thou given that lovely youth
To serve in lady's bower?
Or was the gentle page, in sooth, 255
A gentle paramour?'