Rondeau

Ah men what silly things you are, To woman thus to humble; Who, fowler like, but spreads her snare, Or at her timid game Takes aim, Pop, pop, and down you tumble.

She marks you down, fly where you will, O'er clover, grass, or stubble; Can wing you, feather you, or kill, Just as she takes the trouble.

Ah men, &c.

Then fly not from us, 'tis in vain, We know the art of setting, As well as shooting, and can train The shyest man our net in.

Ah men, &c.