My friends, I will; you know I am a swain, That keep a poor flock here upon this plain: Who, though it seems I could do nothing less, Can make a song, and woo a shepherdess; And not alone the fairest where I live Have heard me sing, and favours deigned to give; But though I say't, the noblest nymph of Thame, Hath graced my verse unto my greater fame. Yet being young, and not much seeking praise, I was not noted out for shepherds' lays, Nor feeding flocks, as you know others be: For the delight that most possessed me Was hunting foxes, wolves, and beasts of prey; That spoil our folds, and bear our lambs away. For this, as also for the love I bear Unto my country, I laid by all care Of gain, or of preferment, with desire Only to keep that state I had entire, And like a true-grown huntsman sought to speed Myself with hounds of rare and choicest breed, Whose names and natures ere I further go, Because you are my friends, I'll let you know. My first esteemed dog that I did find, Was by descent of old Actaeon's kind; A brach, which if I do not aim amiss, For all the world is just like one of his: She's named Love, and scarce yet knows her duty; Her dam's my lady's pretty beagle Beauty, I bred her up myself with wondrous charge, Until she grew to be exceeding large, And waxed so wanton that I did abhor it, And put her out amongst my neighbours for it. The next is Lust, a hound that's kept abroad, 'Mongst some of mine acquaintance, but a toad Is not more loathsome: 'tis a cur will range Extremely, and is ever full of mange; And 'cause it is infectious, she's not wont To come among the rest, but when they hunt. Hate is the third, a hound both deep and long. His sire is true or else supposed Wrong. He'll have a snap at all that pass him by, And yet pursues his game most eagerly. With him goes Envy coupled, a lean cur, And she'll hold out, hunt we ne'er so far: She pineth much, and feedeth little too, Yet stands and snarleth at the rest that do. Then there's Revenge, a wondrous deep-mouthed dog, So fleet, I'm fain to hunt him with a clog, Yet many times he'll much outstrip his bounds, And hunts not closely with the other hounds: He'll venture on a lion in his ire; Curst Choler was his dam, and Wrong his sire. This Choler is a brach that's very old, And spends her mouth too much to have it hold: She's very testy, an unpleasing cur, That bites the very stones, if they but stur: Or when that ought but her displeasure moves, She'll bite and snap at any one she loves: But my quick-scented'st dog is Jealousy, The truest of this breed's in Italy: The dam of mine would hardly fill a glove, It was a lady's little dog, called Love: The sire, a poor deformed cur, named Fear, As shagged and as rough as is a bear: And yet the whelp turned after neither kind, For he is very large, and near-hand blind; At the first sight he hath a pretty colour, But doth not seem so, when you view him fuller; A vile suspicious beast, his looks are bad,