As all
         doe have their pleasures, know 'tis mine

         To leave alike the splenders of the court,

         The scholars books, the sweet fruit of the vine,

         And take delyt in venerys noble sport.  

         And hotly doe I seek thee, fairest hinde,

         Faste on thy trail, this sweetest prise to gaine--

         Thy strategies cannot outwit my minde,

         Though thou dost lepe and hide and turn again.  

         Yet now as alwayes, when thou'rt brought to bay

         My fierce resolve on slaughter's swift displac'd

         By gentle pittie; 'tis strange, thou may'st well say,

         To see the hunter grieve the hinde be chas'd.  

         My hinde, wer't thou the hunter, I the prey,

         Thou'd nede no skill to bring thy quarrie near--

         My life before thee willingly I'd lay

         To be thy hart, as thou art mine own deere.