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.

❧ The Epilogue vnto the Reader.

LO Reader here, the end of this my booke, Though not the end of my good will and loue, Bestowe thy paines hereon a while to looke, As I imployed my head for thy behooue: It shall suffice if thou do not reprooue This slender worke, compilde for thy delight, Whose friendly looke my labour shall requite.

I count my toyle and trauaile but a game, I deeme the dayes not long or spent amisse, If so I may vnto thy fancie frame This booke of mine which all of Hawking is, Than which there can be found no better blisse In my conceit to such as loue the glee, And force the fields where brauest pleasures be.

I must confesse, my Hammers haue but hewde That royall Rocke, which others found of yore, I do but tread the path which others shewde Vnto their friends, to make their skill the more: I but translate a garment made before: Which if I do with gallant shape to view, I deeme as much as if I made a new.

For hard it is to stalke in others steppes. He thinkes himselfe a thrall that marcheth so: He iumpes in ioy that at his pleasure leapes, And is not forst in others feet to goe: Nothing more leefe than liberty you know, Which no Translatour hath I vndertake, Vnlesse that he his Authours sence forsake.

Which vaunt I dare, I seldome here haue done, Zforcino knowes, and can controll me then, Italian borne, whose booke I over-runne, And Giorgies eke compilde with learned pen, Assuredly these two were skilfull men, And wistfull well what Hawkes and hawking ment, And all things else that further this intent.

To Tardiffe eke the Frenchman I appeale, To Malopyn, and Mychelyn, cunning wightes, Let Artelow••he be witnesse how I deale, In field affaires, or else in river flights, And Cassyan eke who well of hawking wrytes: All these I wish as Iudges in the case Where I corrupt or alter any place.

Some men perhaps will wonder that I wrote Of slately hawkes, and byrdes of rare delight, And blazde it out but in so base a note, As scarce will please the gallant Courtiers sight, Who weyes no gold that is not burnisht bright: His curious eare but hardly will digest, Sweet Musickes sound, that is not of the best.

For mine excuse and for my simple pen, To answere thus, I feare I shall be faine, Sith charge of Hawkes committed is to men, That Nobles serve for yearely hyre, and gaine, (Who are not fine but homely mates and plaine) My purpose was, to set them downe the trade, To man their Hawks, and how they might be made.

For Peeres (I know, and you must needs agree) Regard no more but onely to behold The fleeing Hawkes, their ioy is but to see The haughty Haggard worth her weight in gold, To slay the fowle at brooke with courage bolde, With Hawkes they never deale in other sort, Their servants feed, and they enioy the sport.

Which if be so, the lowe and playnest stile Doth best agree the Falconers mind to fit, To carpe it fine with those that haue no guile, A ieast it were and signe of slender wit, The writers ought the readers vaine to hitte. This was the cause I wrote my booke so plaine, I told it earst, I tell it now againe.

The modest mind I know, will rest content, With this excuse, and brooke mine answere well, Of other some perhaps I shall be shent. Whose sullen breasts with secret envie swell, Who pleaseth all, deserues to beare the bell. But if the Courtier fancy this my booke, I scorne the proud disdainfull Momus looke.

Falconers farewell, at pleasure doe pervse These leaves and lines, each picture and each page. Readers adue, I have no farther newes, I can but wish you ancient Nestors age, Vnto whose doomes my writings here I gage: To cure your Hawkes or make your cunning more, If ought be here, I clappe my hands therefore. My Muse, and I, haue done the best we can, To learne you how your Hawkes to lewre & man.

George Turbervile.

Liuor, edax rerum, tu{que} in vidiosa vetustas, Omnia destruitis.

FINIS.