Flying from him it was I fled from home
To Portugal; where the first man I saw
Was he I thought I’d left at Salvatierra:
Flying to Andalusia, the first face
I saw was his I left in Portugal:
Till, rushing homeward in despair, the man
I thought I’d left behind in Andalusia,
Met me at once, and having knockt me down,
Left me for dead. Well, I got up at last,
And fled again: but, scarcely got a mile,