The booke of falconrie or havvking for the onely delight and pleasure of all noblemen and gentlemen : collected out of the best authors, aswell Italians as Frenchmen, and some English practises withall concerning falconrie / heretofore published by George Turbervile, Gentleman.

In commendation of Hawking, George Turbervile.

I Deeme that no man doubts, but games & all our▪ ••efe delights, Were first deuisde to daunt the dumps of pensiue pained sprights. To cleare the clowds of drowping cares, & mists of mournfull mind, And banish bale that heauie harts in cheerelesse chaines did bind. And more than that, to further health, by moouing too and fro, That in our lumpish lustlesse limmes, no dire disease might grow: Which otherwise (set sport aside, and sweet delightfull glee) In idle bodies breeds of force, as we by proofe do see, Not much vnlike the standing lakes, in durtie dampish grounds, Where water hath no power to passe, most noysome filth abounds. If games were thus found out at first, for mind and bodies ease, Aswell to quite that one of griefes, as th'other of disease: Why then? of force it follow must, that those delights are chiefe, And most to be imbrast, that lend to either part reliefe, Which if be so, I need not blush, or deeme it my disgrace, If Hawks and Spanels I preferre, and set in highest place. For truely no deuise delights, the mind of man so much, No game so gladsome to the limmes, there is no pleasure such. No Phisicke fitter to remooue the dregs of direfull paine, And to restore to former life, the feeble force againe. Of Spanels first I meane to speake, for they begin the glee, Who being once vncoupled, when they feele their collers free, In roysting wise about they range, with cheerefull chappes to ground, To see where in the champion may some lurking fowle be found. A sport to view them stirre their sternes, in hunting too and fro, And to behold how nature doth her power in Spanels show:

Who scoure the fields with wondrous skill, and deale in cunning sort, As though indeed they had conspirde, to make their master sport. What merrier musicke can you craue? what note but halfe so good? As when the Spaniels crosse the runne, of Peasants in the wood? Or light vpon the little Poutes, where they haue lately beene? Assuredlie no better glee, is either heard or seene. So as by Hawkes doth pleasure grow, vnto the gazing eie, And dogges delight the listning eares, before the hawkes do flie. What dolt so dull but takes delight, when once the Spaniell springs The fearefull fowle, and when the hawke lyes long vpon her wings? What sence so sad, what mind so mazde, but sets his sorrowes by, What once the Falcon free begins, to send amid the skie? To turne and winde a bird by sleight, and eke at last to slay With strong encounter, doues, and duckes, and euery other pray? The prettie Partridge, Railes, and Quailes, that haunt the open field? And from her mountay to enforce the Hearon haught to yeeld? By binding with her close in cloudes, in manner out of sight? For noble Peeres and chiefest States, a passing pleasant flight? So small a bird, so large a fowle, at such a loftie gate, To reach and rappe, and force to fall, it is a game of state. No fellow to the flight at Brooke, that game is full of glee, It is a sport the stowping of aroysting Hawke to see. And if shee misse, to marke her how she then gets vp amaine, For best advantage, to eneaw the springing fowle againe. Who if be landed as it ought, then is it sure to die. Or if she slippe, a ioy to see, the Hawke at randon flie, And so for head to slay the fowle, a noble sport to view, In my conceit no pleasure like to Hawkes, I tell you true. It sets the sences all to worke, there may none idle be, The tong it lures, the legs they leape, the eie beholds the glee: The eares are busied eke to heare, the calling Spanels quest, Do tell me then what sence it is, that respite hath to rest? And more than that the bart it leaps, and laughes for ioy to thinke, How such a slender hawke should cause, so huge a fowle to shrink. This kind of sport doth banish vice, and vile devises quight, When other games do foster faults, and breed but base delight.

No idle thought can harbor well within the Falconers braine, For though his sports right pleasant be, yet are they mixt with pain. The toyle he takes to find the fowle, his greedy lust to slay, The fowle once found cuts off cōceits, & driues ill thoughts away. He lures, he leapes, he calls, he cries, he ioyes, he waxeth sad, And frames his moode, according as his hawke doth well or bad. Dame Venus harbors not in holtes, no Cupid haunts the hilles, Diana dwelles in open place, with bow her game she kils. In woodes no wanton Goddesse woones: in Citie soiournes sinne, There vice in vawts & dungeon dwells, the lecher lurks within. Dianas traine doth loue the launds, they long abrode to rome, But bawdie Ʋenus ympes embrace, the loitring life at home. To dice, to daunce, to coll, to kisse, to carde the time away, To prate, to prancke, to bowle, to bowse, and tipple out the day. To checke at Chesse, to heaue at Maw, at Macke to passe the time, At Coses, or at Saunt to sit, or set their rest at Prime. Both Ticktacke and the Irish game, are sports but made to spend, I wote not I, to what auaile those trifling games do tend. Ʋnlesse to force a man to chafe, to chide, to sweat, to sweare, To brawle, to ban, to curse, and God in thousand parts to teare. At cockepit some their pleasures place, to wager wealth away, Where Falconers only force the fields, to heare their spanels bay. What greater glee can man desire, than by his cunning skill, So to reclaime a haggard Hawke, as she the fowle shall kill. To make and man her in such sort, as tossing out a traine, Or but the lewre, when she is at large, to whoup her in againe? Where birds, & beasts, & ech thing else, their freedome so imbrace, As let them loose, they will be thralde no more in any case. What finer feat than so to ympe a feather, as in view, A man would sweare it were the old, and not set on a new? When hawkes are hurt and broosde, by rash encounter in the skies, What better skill, than for their harmes a powder to devise, To drie the bloud within the bulcke, and make his Mummie so, As no Physition greater Art, on pacients can bestow? To cure the crampe, and eke the cray, the stone that lies within, The Philanders, the Frounce, the Gout, the Panthas, & the pin.

The Rie, the Rhewne, the Canker, & both lice and mytes to marre, And all such wormes as with your hawkes do wage continall war: To make her mewe when time requires, to bowse and eke to bath, By cunning skill to cause her cast, such glit as breeds her skath. To cut her hoods, to shape her gesse, her tyrets, and her line, With Bells, and Berrets, Ʋernels eke, to make the Falcon fine: Belieue me is no common skill, no bate nor base deuise, But meet for ciuill courtly men, that are reputed wise. Which if be so, then yeeld me thankes, that beat my busie brow, And tooke this toyle for thine auaile, to teach thee when & how To worke this practise and deuise. Accept the Printers paine, Who shewes thee sundry shapes of hawks, though little to his gaine. Both he and I can do no more, than offer our good will, And all to further thy delight, and adde vnto thy skill. VVhich if we do, we haue the hire of both our meanings than, You cannot do a better deed than thanke the painefull man.

George Turbervile.