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?
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 filly 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.
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.
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.