The Hunting of the HARE:
With her Last WILL and TESTAMENT.
As 'twas perform'd on Banstead-Downs,
By Coney-Catchers and their Hounds.
Enter'd in the Stamp-Office according to Act of Parliament.
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OF all Delights that Earth doth yield,
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Give me a Pack of Hounds in Field,
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Whose Eccho shall throughout the Sky,
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Make Jove admire our Harmony,
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And wish that he a Mortal were,
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To view the Pastime we have here.
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I will tell you of a rare Scent,
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Where many a Gallant Horse was spent;
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On Banstead-Downs, a Hare was found,
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Which led us all a smoaking Round,
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O'er Hedge and Ditch, away she goes,
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Admiring her approaching Foes.
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But when she found her Strength to waste,
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She parly'd with the Hounds at last:
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Kind Hounds, quoth she forbear to kill,
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A harmless Hare that ne'er thought ill;
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And if your Master Sport do crave,
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I'll lead a Scent as he would have.
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Hunts. Away, away, thou art alone,
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Make haste, I say, and get thee gone;
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We'll give thee Law for half a Mile,
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To see if thou canst us beguile:
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But then expect a thund'ring Cry,
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Made by us and our Harmony.
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Hare.] Now since you set my Life so light,
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I'll make Black-Sloe turn to White,
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And Yorkshire-Grey that runs at all,
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I'll make him wish he were in Stall,
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And Sorrel he that seems to fly,
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I'll make him supple e'er I Die.
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And Bard-Bay do what he can,
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O! Barons Bay, that now and then,
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Did interrupt me in my Way,
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I'll make him neither Jack nor Play;
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Or constant Robin, tho he lie
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At his Advantage, what care I.
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Will Hatton, he hath done me Wrong,
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He struck me as I ran along,
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And with one pat made me so,
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That I ran reeling to and fro,
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But if I die, his Master tell,
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That Fool shall ring my Passing-Bell.
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Hounds] Alas, poor Hare, it is our Nature
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To kill thee, and no other Creature,
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For our Master wants a bit,
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And thou dost well become the Spit,
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He'll eat thy Flesh, we'll pick thy Bone,
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This is thy Doom, so get thee gone.
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Hare.] Your Master may have better cheer,
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For I am dry, and Butter's dear;
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But, if he please to make a Friend,
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He'd better give a Puddings End,
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For being kill'd, he Sport will lack,
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And I must hand o' th' Huntsman's Back.
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Hounds.] Alas! poor Hare, we pity thee,
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If with our Nature 'twould agree;
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But all thy doubling Shifts we fear,
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Will not prevail, thy Death's so near,
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Then make thy Will, it may be that
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May thee, or I know not what.
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Hare.] Then I bequeath my Body free
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Unto thy Master's Courtesey,
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And if he please my Life to grant,
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I'll be his Game when Sport is scant;
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But if I Die, each greedy Hound,
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Divides my Intrails on the Ground.
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Imprimis] I do bequeath my Head,
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To Him that a fair Fool doth Wed,
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Who had before her Maidenhead lost,
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I would not have the Proverb crost,
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Which I have heard 'mongst many Quiblets,
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Set the Hare's Head 'gainst the Goose Giblets.
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Item, I do give and bequeath,
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To Men in Debt, after my Death,
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My subtle Scent, that so they may
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Beware of such as would betray
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Them to a miserable Fate,
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By Bloodhounds from the Compter Gate.
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Item, I to a Turncoat give,
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That he may more obscurely live,
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My swift and sudden Doublings, which,
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Will make you Politick and Rich,
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Though at the last, with many Wounds,
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I wish him kill'd by his own Hounds.
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Item, I give into their Hands,
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That purchase Dean and Chapter Lands,
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My wretched Jealousies and Fears,
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Mix'd with the Salt of Orphan's Tears,
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That long Vexations may persever,
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To Plague them and their Heirs forever.
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Before I Die, for Life is scant,
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I would supply Mens proper Want;
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And therefore I bequeath unto
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The Scrivener, give the Devil his due,
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That forgeth, swears, and then forswears,
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To save his Credit, both my Ears.
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I give to some Sequestred Men,
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My Skin to make a Jacket on;
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And I bequeath my Feet to they,
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That shortly mean to run away;
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When Truth is Speaker, Falshood Dumb,
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Foxes must fly when Lyons come.
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To Fidlers, for all Trades must live,
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To serve for Strings, my Guts I give,
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To Gamesters that do play at Rut,
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And love the Sport, I give my Scut;
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But last of all, in this sad Dump,
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To Tower-Hill I bequeath my Rump.
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Hounds] Was ever Hounds so basely crost;
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Our Master calls us off so fast,
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That we the Scent have almost lost,
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And they themselves must rule the roast,
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Therefore, kind Hare, I pardon you,
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Hare. Thanks, gentle Hounds, and so adieu.
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And since your Master hath pardon'd me,
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I'll lead you all to Banbury,
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Where John Turner hath a large Room,
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To entertain all Guest that come,
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To laugh and quaff in Wine and Beer,
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A full Carouze to your Galleer.
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