THE
Hunting of the Hare;
WITH
Her Last Will and Testament.
As it was performd on BANSTEAD DOWNS.
By CONEY-CATCHERS and their HOUNDS.
To a most pleasant and delightful Tune.
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OF all Delights that Earth doth yield,
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Give me a Pack of Hounds in Field,
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Whose Eccho shall throughout the Sky,
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Make Jove admire our Harmony;
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And wish that he a Mortal were,
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To view the Pastime we have here.
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I will tell you of a rare Scent,
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Where many a gallant Horse was spent:
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O[n] Banstead Downs a Hare we found,
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Which led us all a smoking round;
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Oer Hedge and Ditch away she goes,
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Admiring her approaching Foes.
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But when she found her Strength to waste,
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She parlyd with the Hounds at last;
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Kind Hounds, quoth she, forbear to kill
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A harmless Hare that neer thought ill:
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And if your Master Sport do crave,
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Ill lead a Scent as he would have.
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Hunts. Away! away! thou art alone,
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Make Haste, I say, and get thee gone;
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Well give thee Law for half a Mile,
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To see if thou canst us beguile:
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But then expect a thundring Cry,
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Made by us and our Harmony.
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Hare. Now since you set my Life so light,
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Ill make a black Stone turn to White,
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And Yorkshire Grey that runs at all,
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Ill make him wish he was in Stall;
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And Sorrel, he that seemd to fly,
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Ill make him supple eer I die.
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And Barnards Bay, do what you can,
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Or Barons Bay, that now and then
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Did interrupt me, now they say,
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Ill make them neither Jest nor Play:
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Or constant Robin, though he lie
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At his Advantage, what care I.
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Will. Hutton he hath done me Wrong,
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He struck me as I run along;
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And with one Bat made me so sore,
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That I ran reeling to and fro:
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But if I die, his Master tell,
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That Fool shall ring my Passing Bell.
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Hounds. Alas! poor Hare, it is our Nature,
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To kill thee and no other Creature;
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For our Master he wants a Bit,
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And thou will well become the Spit:
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Hell eat thy Flesh, and pick thy Bone,
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This is thy Doom, so get thee gone.
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Hare. Your Master may have better Cheer,
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For I am dry, and Butters dear;
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But if he please to make a Friend,
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Hed better give a Puddings End:
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For being killd, he Sport will lack,
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And I must hang oer the Huntsmans Back.
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Hounds. Alas! poor Hare, we pity thee,
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If with our Nature twould agree:
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But all thy doubling Shifts, we fear,
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Will not prevail, thy Deaths so near:
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Then make thy Will, it may be that
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May save thee, or we know not what.
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Hare. Then I bequeath my Body free,
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Unto your Masters Courtesy;
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And if he please my Life to grant,
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Ill be his Game when Sport is scant:
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But if I die, each greedy Hound
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Divides my Entrals on the Ground.
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Imprimis, I bequeath my Head,
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To him that a fair Fool doth wed,
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Who hath before her Maidenhead lost;
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I would not have the Proverb crost,
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Which Ive heard among many Quiblets,
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Set the Hares Head gainst the Goose-giblets.
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Item, I do give and bequeath
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To Men in Debt, (after my Death)
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My subtle Scent, that so they may
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Beware of such as would betray
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Them to a miserable Fate,
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By bloody Hounds from Compter-gate.
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Item, I to a Turncoat give,
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That he may more obscurely live,
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My swift and sudden Doublings, which
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Will make him politick and rich:
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Though at the last, with many Wounds,
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I wish him killd by his own Hounds.
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Item, I give it into their Hands,
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That purchase Dean and Chapter Lands,
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My wretched Jealousies and Fears,
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Mixd with the Salt of Orphans Tears;
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That long Vexations may prosper,
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To plague them and their Heirs for ever.
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Before I die, for Life is scant,
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I would supply their proper Want;
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And therefore I bequeath to you,
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The Scrivener, give the Devil his due,
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That forgeth, swears, and then forswears,
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To save his Credit, both my Ears.
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I give to some sequesterd Man,
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My Skin to make a Jacket on;
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And I bequeath my Feet to they
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That shortly mean to run away:
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When Truth is Speaker, Falshoods dumb,
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Foxes must fly when Lions come.
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To Fidlers, for all Trades must live,
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To serve for Strings, my Guts I give;
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For Gamesters that do play at Rut,
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And love the Sport, I give my Skut:
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But last of all in this sad Dump,
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To Tower-hill I bequeath my Rump:
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Hounds. Were ever Hounds so basely crost,
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Our Masters call us oft so fast,
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That we the Scent have almost lost,
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And they themselves must rule the Roast:
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Therefore, kind Hare, we pardon you.
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Hare. Thanks, gentle Hounds, and so adieu.
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And since your Master pardons me,
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Ill lead you all to Bunbury,
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Where John Turner hath a large Room,
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To entertain his Guests that come,
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To laugh and qu[a]ff in Wine or Beer,
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A full Carouse to your Career.
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