The Hunt in Literature 5 



lover. Restore Adonis, dead, to thine own couch. 

 He is beautiful in death, lovely as though he 

 slept. . . . 



End weeping now, Kytherea, and beat thy breast 

 no more. Thou wilt lament thy love and mourn 

 with each returning year. 



Bion. 



The Blazon pronounced by the Huntsman 



I AM the hunte, which rathe and earely ryse, 

 My bottell filde with wine in any wise ; 

 Twoo draughts I drinke, to stay my steppes with all, 

 For eche foote one, bicause I would not fall. 

 Then take my Hounde in liam me behinde. 

 The stately Harte in fryth or felle to finde. 

 And whiles I seeke his slotte where he hath fedde 

 The sweete byrdes sing, to cheare my drowsie hedde. 

 And when my Hounde doth streyne upon good vent 

 I must confesse the same dothe me content. 



George Gascoigne (1525— 1577). 



Hunting in Arcadia ^o ^^> <:> 



THEN went they together abroad, the good 

 Kalander entertaining them with pleasant dis- 

 coursing — how well he loved the sport of hunting 

 when he was a young man, how much in the 

 comparison thereof he disdained all chamber-delights, 

 that the sun (how great a journey soever he had to 

 make) could never prevent him with earliness, nor 

 the moon, with her sober countenance, dissuade 

 him from watching till midnight for the deers 

 feeding. O, said he, you will never live to my age, 

 without you keep yourself in breath with exercise, 

 and in heart with joyfulness ; too much thinking 

 doth consume the spirits j and oft it falls out, that, 



