Brimful of anger, not of love,

The champion sends his foe one glove:

But I, that have a double share

Of softer passion, send a pair;

Nor think it, dearest Delia, cruel,

That I invite you to a duel,

Ready to meet you, face to face,

At any time, in any place;

Nor will I leave you in the lurch,

Tho' you should dare to fix the church:

There come equipt with all your charms,

A ring, and licence are my arms;

I will th'unequal combat try,

Resolv'd to fight, tho' sure to die.