If nothing true to say against my honour.
And so with all sail set, and streamers flying,
(A coach shall be my ship, and I will have it!)
I mean to glide along the glittering streets
And down the Prado, as I go along
Capturing what eyes and hearts I find by the way,
Heedless of every little breath of scandal
That such as you turn back affrighted by.
I’ll know the saints’ days better than the saints
Themselves; the holidays and festivals