The Hunting of the Hare.
With her last Will and Testament,
As twas performd on Bamstead downs,
By Cony-catchers, and their hounds.
To a pleasant new Tune.
|
OF all delights that Earth doth yeeld,
|
Give mee a pack of hounds in field:
|
Whose eccho shall throughout the sky
|
Make Jove admire our harmony,
|
and wish that he a mortal were
|
to view the pastime we have here.
|
I will tell you of a rare scent,
|
Where many a gallant horse was spent
|
On Bamstead Downs a Hare we found
|
Which lead us all a smoaking round;
|
ore hedge and ditch away she goes,
|
admiring her approaching foes.
|
but when she found her strength to wast
|
She parleyed with the hounds at last:
|
Kind hounds, quoth she forbear to kill
|
A harmless Hare that neer thought ill,
|
and if your Master sport do crave,
|
Ile lead a scent as he would have,
|
Away, away, thou art alone,
|
Make haste, I say, and get thee gone,
|
Weel give thee law for half a mile,
|
To see if thou canst us beguile;
|
but then expect a thundring cry,
|
made by us and our harmony.
|
Now since you set my life so sleight,
|
Il make black slowen turn to white:
|
And Yorkshire Gray that runs at all,
|
Ile make him wish he were in stall,
|
or Sorrel he that seems to flye,
|
I[]le make him supple ere he dye.
|
Let Barnards Bay do what he can,
|
Or Barrons Bay that now and than,
|
Did interrupt mee on my way,
|
Ile make him neither jet nor play,
|
or constant Robin though he lye,
|
at his advantage, what care I.
|
Will Hatton he hath done mee wrong,
|
He struck mee as I run along,
|
And with one pat made mee so sore,
|
That I ran reeling to and fro;
|
but if I dye his Master tell,
|
that fool shall ring my passing bell.
|
Alas poor Hare it is our nature,
|
To kill thee, and no other creature,
|
For our Master wants a bit,
|
And thou wilt well become the spit,
|
hel eat thy flesh, wel pick thy bone,
|
this is thy doom, so get thee gone.
|
|
|
|
|
The second part, to the same Tune.
|
YOur Master may have better chear,
|
For I am dry, and butter is dear,
|
But if he please to make a friend,
|
Hed better give a puddings end,
|
for I being killd the sport hel lack,
|
and I must hang on the Hunts-mans back
|
Alas poor Hare we pity thee,
|
If with our nature twould agree,
|
But all thy doubling shifts I fear,
|
Will not prevail, thy deaths so near,
|
then make thy Will, it may be that,
|
may save thee, or I know not what.
|
Then I bequeathe my body free,
|
Unto your Masters courtesie:
|
And if he please my life to grant,
|
Ile be his game when sport is scant:
|
but if I dye each greedy Hound,
|
divides my entrals on the ground.
|
Imprimis, I bequeathe my head,
|
To him that a fair foul doth wed:
|
Who hath before her Maiden-head lost,
|
I would not have the proverb crost,
|
which I have heard mongst many quib-lets
|
set the Hares head gainst the Goose-giblets
|
Item, I do give and bequeathe,
|
To men in debt (after my death)
|
My subtle scent, that so they may,
|
Beware of such as would betray,
|
them to a miserable fate
|
by blood-hounds from the Compter-gate.
|
Item, I to a turn-coat give
|
(That he may more obscurely live)
|
My swift and sudden doublings which,
|
Will make him politick and rich,
|
though at the last with many wounds
|
I wish him killd by his own hounds.
|
Item, I give into their hands,
|
That purchase Dean & Chapters lands,
|
My wretched jealousies and fears,
|
Mixt with salt of Orphans tears,
|
that long vexations may persever,
|
to plague them and their heirs for e-ver.
|
Before I dye (for breath is scant)
|
I would supply mens proper want,
|
And therefore I bequeath[e] unto,
|
The Scrivener (give the Devil his due)
|
that Forgeth, Swears, and then For-swears
|
(to save his credit) both my Ears.
|
I give to some Sequestred man,
|
My skin to make a jacket on:
|
And I bequeathe my feet to they,
|
That shortly mean to run away,
|
when truth is Speaker, False-hoods dumb,
|
Foxes must flye when Lions come.
|
To Fidlers (for all Trades must live)
|
To serve for strings, my guts I give:
|
For Gamesters that do play at rut,
|
And love the sport, I give my skut:
|
but (last of all in this sad dump)
|
to Tower-hill I bequeathe my Rump
|
Was ever Hounds so basely crost?
|
Our Masters calls us off so fast,
|
That we the scent have almost lost,
|
And they themselves must rule the rost,
|
therefore kind Hare weel pardon you,
|
thanks gentle Hounds, and so adue.
|
And since your Master hath pardond me
|
Ile lead you all to Banbury,
|
Whereas John Turner hath a Room,
|
To entertain all Guests that come,
|
to laugh and quaff in Wine and Beer
|
a full carouse to your Galleere.
|
|
|
|
|