[Whene’er Don Juan has a feast at home,]
I am forgotten as if at Rome;
But he will for funerals me invite,
To kill me with the annoyance quite:
Well, so be it!
Celeste, with thousand coy excuses,
Will sing the song that set she chooses,
And all about that her environ,
Though like an owl, call her a Siren:
Well, so be it!