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To our old Arden here, most fitly it belongs :
The stag for goodly shape, and stateliness of head, Is fitt'st to hunt at force. For whom, when with his hounds The labouring hunter tufts the thick unbarbed grounds, Where harbour'd is the hart; there often from his feed The dogs of him do find; or thorough skilful heed, The huntsman by his slot, or breaking earth, perceives, Or ent'ring of the thick by pressing of the greaves, Where he had gone to lodge. Now when the hart doth hear The often-bellowing hounds to vent his secret lair, He rousing rusheth out, and through the brakes doth drive, As though up by the roots the bushes he would rive. And through the cumb'rous thicks, as fearfully he makes, He with his branched head the tender saplings shakes, That sprinkling their moist pearl do seem for him to weep; When after goes the cry, with yellings loud and deep, That all the forest rings, and every neighbouring place : And there is not a hound but falleth to the chase. Rechating with his horn, which then the hunter cheers, Whilst still the lusty stag his high-palm'd head upbears, His body showing state, with unbent knees upright, Expressing from all beasts, his courage in his flight. But when th' approaching foes still following he perceives, That he his speed must trust, his usual walk he leaves : And o'er the champain flies; which when the assembly find, Each follows, as his horse were footed with the wind. But being then imbost, the noble stately deer When he hath gotten ground (the kennel cast arrear)
Doth beat the brooks and ponds for sweet refreshing soil ;
(JOHN DONNE was born in London in 1573, and studied both at Oxford and Cambridge. At the age of nineteen he abandoned the Roman Catholic religion. Having secretly married the niece of Lord Ellesmere, to whom he was secretary, he lost the friendship of that nobleman, and, after seeking for civil appointments in vain, took orders. He became an eminent preacher, and was made Dean of St. Paul's. He died in 1631.
Donne is best known for his satires. He was a man of great learning and extraordinary wit, and was not a bad poet.)
BEFORE I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe,
To women, or the sea, my tears;
By making me serve her who had twenty more,
My constancy I to the planets give;
My money to a Capuchin.
My faith I give to Roman Catholics;
My patience. let gamesters share ;
I give my reputation to those
And to my company my wit :