The hoohe of Hunting pg 



This little leflbn here, which followeth next in place, 

 Forgiue me (Queene) which am to bold, to fpeak vnto yo' grace, 



MY Liege forgiue the boldnefle of your man. 

 Which comes to fpeake before your grace him call : 

 My fkyll is fmall, yet muft I as I can, 

 Prefume to preach, before thefe Barons ail. 

 And tell a tale, which may fuch mynds appall 

 As pafle their dayes in flouthfull idlenefTe, 

 The fyrlt foule nourfe to worldly wickednelTe. 



Since golden time, (my liege) doth neuer ftay. 

 But fleeth ftill about with reftlefle wyngs. 

 Why doth your grace, let time then fleale away. 

 Which is more worth, than all your worldly things ? 

 Beleeue me (liege) beleeue me Queenes and Kyngs, 

 One only houre (once loft) yeldes more anoy, 

 Than twentie dayes can cure with myrth and ioy. 



And fmce your grace determinde by decree. 

 To hunt this day, and recreate your mynde. 

 Why fyt you thus and lofe the game and glee 

 Which you might heare ? why ringeth not the winde. 

 With homes and houndes, according to their kynde ? 

 Why fit you thus (my liege) and neuer call. 

 Our houndes nor vs, to make you fport withall? 



Perchance the fight, which fodenly you faw, 

 Erewhyles betweene, thefe ouerbragging bluddes, 

 Amafde your mynde, and for a whyle did draw 

 Your noble eyes, to fettle on fuch fuddes. 

 But peerelefle Prince, the moyfture of fuch muddes. 

 Is much too grofTe and homely for your grace. 

 Behold them not, their pleafures be but bafe. 



Behold vs here, your true and truftie men, 



Your 



