The Thracian Filly

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Ah tell me why you turn and fly,
 My little Thracian filly shy?
 Why turn askance
 That cruel glance,
 And think that such a dunce am I?

 O I am blest with ample wit
 To fix the bridle and the bit,
 And make thee bend
 Each turning-end
 In harness all the course of it.

  But now 'tis yet the meadow free
 And frisking it with merry glee;
 The master yet
 Has not been met
 To mount the car and manage thee.

© Anacreon