It fortuned as he, that perilous game In foreign soil pursued, far away; Into a forest wide and waste, he came, Where store he heard to be of savage prey. So wide a forest and so waste as this, Nor famous Ardenne, nor foul Arlo is. There his well-woven toils and subtle trains He laid, the brutish nation to enwrap: So well he wrought with practice and with pains, That he of them, great troops did soon entrap. Full happy man! misweening much, was he; So rich a spoil within his power to see. Eftsoons, all heedless of his dearest hale, Full greedily into the herd he thrust To slaughter them and work their final bale, Lest that his toil should of their troops be burst. Wide wounds emongst them, many one he made; Now with his sharp boar spear, now with his blade. His care was all, how he them all might kill; That none might 'scape, so partial unto none. Ill mind! so much to mind another's ill, As to become unmindful of his own. But pardon that unto the cruel skies, That from himself to them, withdrew his eyes. So as he raged emongst that beastly rout; A cruel beast of most accursèd brood, Upon him turned--despair makes cowards stout; And with fell tooth, accustomèd to blood, Launched his thigh with so mischievous might, That it both bone and muscle rivèd quite. So deadly was the dint, and deep the wound, And so huge streams of blood thereout did flow; That he endurèd not the direful stound But on the cold dear earth, himself did throw. The whiles the captive herd his nets did rend, And having none to let; to wood did wend. Ah, where were ye this while, his shepherd peers? To whom alive was nought so dear as he. And ye fair maids, the matches of his years! Which in his grace, did boast you most to be? And where were ye, when he of you had need, To stop his wound that wondrously did bleed? Ah, wretched boy! the shape of drearihead! And sad ensample of man's sudden end! Full little faileth, but thou shalt be dead; Unpitied, unplained of foe or friend: Whilst none is nigh, thine eyelids up to close; And kiss thy lips like faded leaves of rose. A sort of shepherds suing of the chase, As they the forest rangèd on a day; By fate or fortune came unto the place, Whereas the luckless boy yet bleeding lay. Yet bleeding lay, and yet would still have bled, Had not good hap those shepherds thither led. They stopped his wound--too late to stop, it was, And in their arms then softly did him rear: Tho, as he willed, unto his lovèd lass, His dearest love, him dolefully did bear. The doleful'st bier that ever man did see Was ASTROPHEL, but dearest unto me.