The paine of pleasure describing in a perfect mirror, the miseries of man [by Anthony Munday] |
 |
|
Fowling, The sixteenth pleasure.
|
 | The paine of pleasure |  |
Fowling, The sixteenth pleasure.
Some
men will toyle in water, frost and snow,
To set a Lymetwig for a foolish Snite:
And glad for colde, his fingers ends to blow,
And so stand plodding all day long till night.
And for wild Fowle, euen like a peaking mome,
To catch a Snipe, and beare a tame foole home.
To set a Lymetwig for a foolish Snite:
And glad for colde, his fingers ends to blow,
And so stand plodding all day long till night.
And for wild Fowle, euen like a peaking mome,
To catch a Snipe, and beare a tame foole home.
Now some againe, goe stalking with a Gun,
To kill a Herne, a Shooluerd or a Crane:
Who plodding so, ere fowling time be done,
Doe misse the Fowle, and breede their suddaine bane.
As if the peece should breake in cracks or flawes,
Or else recoyle, and strike a two his iawes.
To kill a Herne, a Shooluerd or a Crane:
Who plodding so, ere fowling time be done,
Doe misse the Fowle, and breede their suddaine bane.
As if the peece should breake in cracks or flawes,
Or else recoyle, and strike a two his iawes.
Or else the winde may hap to blowe the fire,
Upon his face, and marre his visage quite:
Then tell me now, what he would not desire,
To goe a Fowling for such sweete delight.
Tush, many moe such mischiefes doe I know,
Which Fowlers finde, but were two long to show.
Upon his face, and marre his visage quite:
Then tell me now, what he would not desire,
To goe a Fowling for such sweete delight.
Tush, many moe such mischiefes doe I know,
Which Fowlers finde, but were two long to show.
But least that some should count me for a foole,
For to dispraise the sport in Fowling quite:
I say no more, but fall not in the poole,
Catch not a Snipe, in setting for a Snite.
Looke to the Peece, keepe thy face from the fire,
And Fowle in Gods name to thine owne desire.
For to dispraise the sport in Fowling quite:
I say no more, but fall not in the poole,
Catch not a Snipe, in setting for a Snite.
Looke to the Peece, keepe thy face from the fire,
And Fowle in Gods name to thine owne desire.
But loue it not too much, but as it is,
Esteeme it so, a hard cold sport in deede,
Which vsde aright, is pleasant, but amisse,
Yeeldes diuers griefes, therefore no more then neede.
Follow the sport, nor take therein delight:
Too much I meane, least it doe worke thee spight.
Esteeme it so, a hard cold sport in deede,
Which vsde aright, is pleasant, but amisse,
Yeeldes diuers griefes, therefore no more then neede.
Follow the sport, nor take therein delight:
Too much I meane, least it doe worke thee spight.
And thus I leaue to speake more of such sportes,
As with delight doe breede as great despight,
And of delights in other sundry sortes,
That dayly grow, I meane my minde to write.
Which waied well, are all but foolish toyes:
Which with great griefes doe yeeld but little ioyes.
As with delight doe breede as great despight,
And of delights in other sundry sortes,
That dayly grow, I meane my minde to write.
Which waied well, are all but foolish toyes:
Which with great griefes doe yeeld but little ioyes.
| The paine of pleasure | |