The Boar's Head

A simple beauty passes quietly
In this city sewer called "The Boar's Head".
She, in ale and food spotted cloth, deftly 
Does dance her rounds to where she is called.


I, in warm ways, wish that I might linger 
To try and chance her favor for to win.
But my appointment points its cold finger
Away from her and towards the horizon.


So, I take my food in silence, but keep
My gaze on the lovely lass whose face will
Go with me upon my journey. Then leap
I to saddle, and the road's shadows fill.


Mayhaps a stranger's face will play in mind
When she clears my place, and a gold coin finds.