AH tell me why you turn and fly, My little Thracian filly shy? Why turn askance That cruel glance, And think that such a dunce am I? O I am blest with ample wit To fix the bridle and the bit, And make thee bend Each turning-end In harness all the course of it. But now 'tis yet the meadow free And frisking it with merry glee; The master yet Has not been met To mount the car and manage thee. |