The noble arte of venerie or hvnting VVherein is handled and set out the Vertues, Nature, and Properties of fiuetene sundrie Chaces togither, with the order and maner how to Hunte and kill euery one of them. Translated and collected for the pleasure of all Noblemen and Gentlemen, out of the best approued Authors, which haue written anything concerning the same: And reduced into such order and proper termes as are vsed here, in this noble Realme of England [by George Turbervile] |
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The Hare, to the Hunter.
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 | The noble arte of venerie or hvnting |  |
176
The Hare, to the Hunter.
Are
mindes of men, become so voyde of sense,
That they can ioye to hurte a harmelesse thing?
A sillie beast, whiche cannot make defence?
A wretche? a worme that can not bite, nor sting?
If that be so, I thanke my Maker than,
For makyng me, a Beast and not a Man.
That they can ioye to hurte a harmelesse thing?
A sillie beast, whiche cannot make defence?
A wretche? a worme that can not bite, nor sting?
If that be so, I thanke my Maker than,
For makyng me, a Beast and not a Man.
177
The Lyon lickes the sores of wounded Sheepe,
He spares to pray, whiche yeeldes and craueth grace:
The dead mans corps hath made some Serpentes weepe,
Such rewth may ryse in beasts of bloudie race:
And yet can man, (whiche bragges aboue the rest)
Use wracke for rewth? can murder like him best?
He spares to pray, whiche yeeldes and craueth grace:
The dead mans corps hath made some Serpentes weepe,
Such rewth may ryse in beasts of bloudie race:
And yet can man, (whiche bragges aboue the rest)
Use wracke for rewth? can murder like him best?
This song I sing, in moane and mourneful notes,
(Which fayne would blase, the bloudie minde of Man)
Who not cotent with Hartes, Hindes, Buckes, Rowes, Gotes,
Bores, Beares, and all, that hunting conquere can,
Must yet seeke out, me silly harmelesse Hare,
To hunte with houndes, and course sometimes with care.
(Which fayne would blase, the bloudie minde of Man)
Who not cotent with Hartes, Hindes, Buckes, Rowes, Gotes,
Bores, Beares, and all, that hunting conquere can,
Must yet seeke out, me silly harmelesse Hare,
To hunte with houndes, and course sometimes with care.
The Harte doth hurte (I must a trueth confesse)
He spoyleth Corne, and beares the hedge adowne:
So doth the Bucke, and though the Rowe seeme lesse,
Yet doth he harme in many a field and Towne:
The clyming Gote doth pill both plant and vine,
The pleasant meades are rowted vp with Swine.
He spoyleth Corne, and beares the hedge adowne:
So doth the Bucke, and though the Rowe seeme lesse,
Yet doth he harme in many a field and Towne:
The clyming Gote doth pill both plant and vine,
The pleasant meades are rowted vp with Swine.
But I poore Beast, whose feeding is not seene,
Who breake no hedge, who pill no pleasant plant:
Who stroye no fruite, who can turne vp no greene,
Who spoyle no corne, to make the Plowman want:
Am yet pursewed with hounde, horse, might and mayne
By murdring men, vntill they haue me slayne.
Who breake no hedge, who pill no pleasant plant:
Who stroye no fruite, who can turne vp no greene,
Who spoyle no corne, to make the Plowman want:
Am yet pursewed with hounde, horse, might and mayne
By murdring men, vntill they haue me slayne.
Sa how sayeth one, as soone as he me spies,
Another cries Now, Now, that sees me starte,
The houndes call on, with hydeous noyse and cryes,
The spurgalde Iade must gallop out his parte:
The horne is blowen, and many a voyce full shryll,
Do whoup and crie, me wretched Beast to kyll.
Another cries Now, Now, that sees me starte,
The houndes call on, with hydeous noyse and cryes,
The spurgalde Iade must gallop out his parte:
The horne is blowen, and many a voyce full shryll,
Do whoup and crie, me wretched Beast to kyll.
178
What meanest thou man, me so for to pursew?
For first my skinne is scarcely worth a placke,
My fleshe is drie, and harde for to endew,
My greace (God knoweth) not great vpon my backe,
My selfe, and all, that is within me founde,
Is neyther, good, great, ritche, fatte, sweete, nor sounde.
For first my skinne is scarcely worth a placke,
My fleshe is drie, and harde for to endew,
My greace (God knoweth) not great vpon my backe,
My selfe, and all, that is within me founde,
Is neyther, good, great, ritche, fatte, sweete, nor sounde.
So that thou shewest thy vauntes to be but vayne,
That bragst of witte, aboue all other beasts,
And yet by me, thou neyther gettest gayne
Nor findest foode, to serue thy gluttons feasts:
Some sporte perhaps: yet Greuous is the glee
VVhich endes in Bloud, that lesson learne of me.
That bragst of witte, aboue all other beasts,
And yet by me, thou neyther gettest gayne
Nor findest foode, to serue thy gluttons feasts:
Some sporte perhaps: yet Greuous is the glee
VVhich endes in Bloud, that lesson learne of me.
| The noble arte of venerie or hvnting | |