William Pattison (1706–1727)

IF from the lustre of the sun,

To catch your fleeting shade you run,

In vain is all your haste, Sir;

But if your feet reverse the race,

The fugitive will urge the chase,

And follow you as fast, Sir.

Thus, if at any time, as now,

Some scornful Chloe you pursue,

In hopes to overtake her;

Be sure you ne’er too eager be,

But look upon’t as cold as she,

And seemingly forsake her.

So I and Laura t’other day,

Were coursing round a cock of hay,

While I could ne’er o’er get her;

But, when I found I ran in vain,

Quite tir’d I turn’d me back again,

And, flying from her, met her.