The hooke of Hunting 177 



The Lyon lickes the fores of wounded Sheepe, 

 He fpares to pray, whiche yeeldes and craueth grace : 

 The dead mans corps hath made fome Serpentes weepe, 

 Such rewth may ryfe in beafts of bloudie race : 

 And yet can man, (whiche bragges aboue the reft) 

 Vfe wracke for rewth ? can murder like him beft ? 



This fong I fing, in moane and mourneful notes, 

 (Which fayne would blafe, the bloudie minde of Man) 

 Who not content with Hartes, Hindes, Buckes, Rowes, Gotes, 

 Bores, Beares, and all, that hunting conquere can, 

 Muft yet feeke out, me filly harmelelle Hare, 

 To hunte with houndes, and courfe fometimes with care. 



The Harte doth hurte (I muft a trueth confefle) 

 He fpoyleth Corne, and beares the hedge adowne : 

 So doth the Bucke, and though the Rowe feeme lefie. 

 Yet doth he harme in many a field and Towne : 

 The clyming Gote doth pill both plant and vine. 

 The pleafant meades are rowted vp with Swine. 



But I poore Beaft, whofe feeding is not feene. 

 Who breake no hedge, who pill no pleafant plant : 

 Who ftroye no fruite, who can turne vp no greene. 

 Who fpoyle no corne, to make the Plowman want : 

 Am yet pursewed with hounde, horse, might and mayne 

 By murdring men, vntill they haue me flayne. 



Sa how fayeth one, as foone as he me fpies. 

 Another cries Now^ Now^ that fees me ft arte. 

 The houndes call on, with hydeous noyfe and cryes. 

 The fpurgalde lade muft gallop out his parte : 

 The home is blowen, and many a voyce full fliryll. 

 Do whoup and crie, me wretched Beaft to kyll. 



What 



