Would not all the aged maidens,
Long accustomed to caress him,
Shudder if they came to hear that
Francis was a savage huntsman!
When he breaks into a gallop,
The great William with derision
Looks on his poor commentator
Who at donkey’s pace goes after,
Helplessly and wildly clinging
To the pommel of his donkey,
Yet in death as well as lifetime
Following faithfully his author.
Many ladies saw I also
In the spirits’ wild procession,
Many beauteous nymphs amongst them
With their slender, youthful figures.
They astraddle sat their horses,
Mythologically naked;
Yet their long and curling tresses
Fell low down, like golden mantles.
Garlands on their heads they carried,
And with saucy backward-bending
Supercilious wanton postures
Leafy wands kept ever swinging.
Hard beside them saw I certain
Closely-button’d dames on horseback
On their ladies’ saddles sitting
With their falcons on their fists.
As in parody behind them
On their knackers, lanky ponies,
Rode a troop of gay bedizen’d
Women, looking like comedians.
Full of beauty were their features,
But perchance a little bold;
Madly were they shouting with their
Cheeks so full and wanton-painted.
How they joyously re-echoed,
Notes of hunting-horns and laughter,
Yelping dogs and neighing horses,
Cracking whips and shouts and halloing.