MISCELLANEA. 
59 
the weaker ones in the centre ; and if, as sometimes happens, a 
fox takes a spring and leaps in among them, they instantly turn, 
and, boxing him with their heads, stamping him with their feet, 
and tossing him with their horns, never fail to kill him. 
“ When these sheep on the top of the hill saw me retire they 
grew more careless and did not keep their ranks so straight ; but 
whenever I turned and approached them, they looked steadily at 
me, formed closer together, and formed their ranks more regularly ; 
and I verily believe, had I attempted to attack them, they would 
have resisted. I had once a mind to try ; but I confess I was afraid, 
as I observed them seemingly bending their knees to make a spring 
at me.” 
Utility of the Sheep. 
Next unto the greater sort of cattell the chiefest place is to be 
assigned to the sheepe ; yea, if you consider the great commodity 
and profit, they are to be preferred before them ; for as oxen serve 
for the tilling of ground and necessary use of man, so is to this 
poore beast ascribed the savegard of the body, for the sheepe doth 
both with his fleece apparell us, and with his milke and wholesome 
flesh nourish us, as the poet witnesseth. 
Poore beast, that for defence of man at first created wast, 
And in thy swelling udder bear’st the juyce of daintie tast ; 
That with thy fleece keepst off the coid that should our limbs assaile, 
And rather with thy life than with thy death doest vs auaile. 
Barnaby Googe , 1614, p. 130. 
THE DYING HORSE. 
Heaven ! what enormous strength does Death possess ! 
How muscular the giant’s arm must be ! 
To grasp that strong-bon’d horse, and, spite of all 
His furious efforts, fix him to the earth ! 
Yet, hold, he rises! — no — the struggle’s vain, 
His strength avails him not. Beneath the gripe 
Of the remorseless monster, stretch’d at length, 
He lies with neck extended, and head hard pressed 
Upon the turf where late he fed. 
His with’ring fibres speak his inward pain ; 
His smoking nostrils speak his inward fire. 
Oh ! how he glares ! — and, hark ! methinks I hear 
His bubbling blood, which seems to burst the veins. 
Amazement ! horror ! what a desp’rate plunge ! 
See where his iron’d hoof has dash’d a sod 
With the velocity of lightning. Ah ! 
He rises — triumphs ; yes, the victory’s his. 
No — the wrestler, Death, again has thrown him ; 
And, oh ! with what a murd’ring, dreadful fall ! 
Soft — he is quiet. Yet, whence came that groan? 
