Or Contredanse’s vulgar stir:
For me—who am no villager!—
I love not dances rough and free,
Nor yet too slow! Without demur
The Passepied’s the dance for me.
“Hark to its gentle, plaintive air!
Was music ever mellower,
More full of grace, more sweetly fair?
No dancer, sure, could wish to err
From the staid rhythms that recur—