The Hunting of the HARE,
WITH
Her last Will and Testament:
As 'twas perform'd on BANSTEAD-DOWNS, By CONEY-CATCHERS and their Hounds
To a most pleasant new Tune, etc.
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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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On Banstead-Downs a Hare we found,
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Which led us all a smoaking Round,
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O're 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 wast,
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She parly'd with the Hounds at last:
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Kind Hounds (quoth she) forbear to kill
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A harmless Hare that ne'r thought ill;
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And if your Master Sport do crave,
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I'll lead a Scent as he would have.
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Huntsman.
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Away, away, thou art alone,
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Make hast, I say, and get thee gone;
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We'll give thee Law for half a Mile,
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To see if thou can'st 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.
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Now since you set my life so light,
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I'll make Black-slowen turn to white,
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And Yorkshire Gray that runs at all,
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I'll make him wish he were in stall;
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And Sorrel he that seems to flye,
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I'll make him supple e're I dye.
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And Barnard-bay, do what he can,
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Or Baron's Bay, that now and then
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Did inturrupt me in my way,
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I'll make him neither jet nor play;
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Or constant Robin, though he lye
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At his advantage, what care I.
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Will. Hatton he hath done me wrong,
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He struck me as I ran along,
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And with one pat made me so sore,
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That I ran reeling two and fro;
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But if I dye, his Master tell,
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That Fool shall ring my Passing-bell.
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Hound.
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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 wants a Bit,
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And thou wilt well become the Spit,
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He'll eat thy Flesh, we'll pick thy Bone;
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This is thy Doom, so get thee gone.
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Hare.
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Your Master may have better Chear,
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For I am dry, and Butter's dear;
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But if he please to make a Friend,
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He'd better give a Pudding's End:
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For being kill'd he Sport will lack,
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And I must hang o'th' Huntsman's back.
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Hound.
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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 Death's 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.
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Then I bequeath my Body free,
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Unto your Master's Courtesie;
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And if he please my Life to grant,
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I'll be his Game when Sport is scant;
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But if I dye, each greedy Hound,
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Divides my Entrails 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 Maiden-head lost;
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I would not have the Proverb crost,
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Which i've heard 'mongst many Quiblets,
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Set the Hare's 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 Blood-hounds from the Compter-gate.
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Item, I to a Turn-coat 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 pollitick and rich;
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Though at the last, with many wounds,
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I wish him kill'd by his own Houndst.
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Item, I give into their hands,
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That purchase Dean and Chapter's Land[s,]
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My wretched Jealousies and Fears,
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Mixt with the Salt of Orphants Tears,
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That long Vexations may persevere,
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To plague them and their Heirs forever
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Before I dye, (for Life is scant,)
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I would supply Mens proper want;
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And therefore I bequeath unto
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The Scrivener (give the Devil his due)
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That forgeth, swears, and then forsmes
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(To save his Credit) both my Ears.
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I give to some Sequestred 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, Falshood's dum[b,]
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Foxes must flye when Lyons 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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Hound.
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Was ever Hounds so basely crost?
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Our Masters calls us off 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'll pardon you,
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Thanks, gentle Hounds, and so adieu.
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Hare
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And since your Master hath pardon'd me
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I'll lead you all to Banbury,
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Where John Turner hath a large Room,
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To entertain all Guest that come;
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To laugh and quaff in Wine and Beer,
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A fully Carouse to your Galleer.
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