The Echo, Song CIV

This hot pursuit, With threats to boot, Have little to alarm me; So war I wage, Defy his rage, And brave whate'er may harm me.

He still may swear, And stamp and stare, I'll neither fear nor falter; Whate'er may bind, 'Gainst woman's mind, Will prove a rotten halter.

My mistress flown, I'll soon be gone:— Old Crusty swears he'll tame her; For him she loves, Abroad she roves, In truth I cannot blame her,

In varied shapes, Thro' hair-breadth scapes, Each way he tries to win her: She scorns restraint, And such a saint Would make e'en me a sinner.

Some trim disguise, No doubt she tries— I'll follow her example: Of faith, of skill, And wit at will, I'll give 'em straight a sample.

So she and I Will fairly try, Whose trick or change can blind most. And since, old Don, You choose to run, The devil take the hindmost,