And I do fear in time he will grow mad. To him I couple Avarice, still poor; Yet she devours as much as twenty more: A thousand horse she in her paunch can put, Yet whine as if she had an empty gut: And having gorged what might a land have found, She'll catch for more, and hide it in the ground. Ambition is a hound as greedy full; But he for all the daintiest bits doth cull: He scorns to lick up crumbs beneath the table, He'll fetch 't from boards and shelves, if he be able: Nay, he can climb if need be; and for that, With him I hunt the martin and the cat: And yet sometimes in mounting he's so quick, He fetches falls are like to break his neck. Fear is well-mouth'd, but subject to distrust; A stranger cannot make him take a crust: A little thing will soon his courage quail, And 'twixt his legs he ever claps his tail; With him Despair now often coupled goes, Which by his roaring mouth each huntsman knows. None hath a better mind unto the game, But he gives off, and always seemeth lame. My bloodhound Cruelty, as swift as wind, Hunts to the death, and never comes behind; Who but she's strapp'd and muzzled too withal, Would eat her fellows, and the prey and all; And yet she cares not much for any food, Unless it be the purest harmless blood. All these are kept abroad at charge of many, They do not cost me in a year a penny. But there's two couple of a middling size, That seldom pass the sight of my own eyes. Hope, on whose head I've laid my life to pawn; Compassion, that on every one will fawn. This would, when 'twas a whelp, with rabbits play Or lambs, and let them go unhurt away: Nay, now she is of growth, she'll now and then Catch you a hare, and let her go again. The two last, Joy and Sorrow, 'tis a wonder, Can ne'er agree, nor ne'er bide far asunder. Joy's ever wanton, and no order knows: She'll run at larks, or stand and bark at crows. Sorrow goes by her, and ne'er moves his eye; Yet both do serve to help make up the cry. Then comes behind all these to bear the base, Two couple more of a far larger race, Such wide-mouth'd trollops, that 'twould do you good To hear their loud loud echoes tear the wood. There's Vanity, who, by her gaudy hide, May far away from all the rest be spied, Though huge, yet quick, for she's now here, now there; Nay, look about you, and she's everywhere: Yet ever with the rest, and still in chase. Right so, Inconstancy fills every place; And yet so strange a fickle-natured hound, Look for her, and she's nowhere to be found. Weakness is no fair dog unto the eye, And yet she hath her proper quality; But there's Presumption, when he heat hath got, He drowns the thunder and the cannon-shot: And when at start he his full roaring makes, The earth doth tremble, and the heaven shakes. These were my dogs, ten couple just in all, Whom by the name of Satyrs I do call: Mad curs they be, and I can ne'er come nigh them, But I'm in danger to be bitten by them. Much pains I took, and spent days not a few,