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Go, you the shady Woods beset,
You tall Cecropius Summit beat
With nimble Feet; those Plains some try
Which under stony Parnes lie.
And those the River with swift Waves
Roll'd through Thriasian Vallies laves.
Climb you those lofty Hills still white
With cold Riphæan Snows, their Flight
Some others take, where stands the Grove
With spreading Alders interwove,
Where ly the Fields which the Spring's Sire,
The soft'ring Zephyre, doth inspire
With balmy Breath, when to appear
He calls the Vernal Flowers, and where
Meander-like, 'bove Agra's Plains,
Through Pebbles calm Ilissus strains
His Course, whose hungry Waters eat
Away his barren Banks. You beat
On the Left-hand, where Marathon
The way does open to the Down.
Where nightly the wild Herds along
Unto their Forage lead their young.
You tow'rd the rough Acharnans run,
Seated against the Southern Sun,
Whose warm Beams Winter's Rigour slack.
For sweet Hymetius Quarries make
Some others. You pursue the path
To small Aphidnæ, that part hath
Been long untrac'd, where to a Reach
Sunion th'Embayed Shore doth stretch.
Whom Sylvan Glories do excite,
Lo, Phibalis doth him invite:
There by many a Wound well known,
The Terror of the labouring Clown,
Lodges a Boar: slack you the Line
To those still Hounds there, but confine
Those fierce Molossians to their Chain.
Those Cretan Bitches, let them strain
Their tougher Leash, with Necks whose Hair
Is worn, by frequent struggling, bare.
Those fiery Spartans ('tis a bold
Race, and greedy of their Prey) hold
Shorter up; the hollow Rocks shall round
E'er long with their full Cries resound:
Now with sagacious Nose inclin'd
Snuff they the Air, and seek to find
Their Game, whilst yet the Scent lies hot,
And the dew'd Earth retains the Slought
Of Feet, ere Day-light 'gins t'appear.
Some one on charged Shoulders bear
The corded Toils some help to set
With nimble Speed the close-maesh'd Net.
Some, with vain Terror to confine
The rowz'd Game, pitch the red-plum'd Line.
Take you a light Dart; you a large
Boar-Spear, and that with both hands charge.
You close conceal'd in Ambush lie,
And fright with Noise the Beasts that fly
Into the Toils. You of the Prey,
When we have kill'd, shall take the 'Say.

To thy Companion, O Divine
Virago! now Success assign.
Thou, who Earth's solitary parts
Thy Empire mak'st: whose sure aim'd Darts
Those Beasts feel cold Araxis drink,
Those sport on frozen Ister's Brink.
Getulian Lions who subdues,
Whose Hand Cretæan Harts pursues;
And now does slighter Wounds impose
Upon the swiftly flying Roes.
Tygers to thee present their Breasts;
Swift-footed Elgs, with shaggy Crests,
To thee their Backs: and fiercer Bulls
Arm'd with large Horns on their rough Sculls.
What Beast soever there remains,
Whether in the deserted Plains,
Which the poor Garamantian knows.
Those the rich Arabs Woods inclose,
Or Pyrenæan Hills conceal,
Whome'er Hyrcanian Lawns reveal,
Or those the wand'ring Sarmats see,
Great Goddess! dread thy Shafts and Thee.

If with due Rites thy Sylvan Pow'r
The grateful Votary implore,
The Toils retain th'intangled Prey,
Nor strugling Feet through Nets break way;
But home he comes, whilst his Wain's Back
Does with the loaded Quarry crack,
And every Hound up to the Eyes
In Blood his greedy Snout bedies.
Whilst to their Homes the Rural Train
Return in Triumph back again.

Lo! the kind Goddess proves our Friend!
The Hounds, I hear, their loud Mouths spend;
The Huntsmen call. This way I'll take,
That I the shorter Cut may make.