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;
That serving not, then proves if he his scent can foil,
And makes amongst the herds, and flocks of shag-wool'd
sheep,

Them frighting from the guard of those who had their keep.
But when as all his shifts his safety still denies,

Put quite out of his walk, the ways and fallows tries;
Whom when the ploughman meets, his team he letteth stand,
T' assail him with his goad: so with his hook in hand,
The shepherd him pursues, and to his dog doth hallow:
When, with tempestuous speed, the hounds and huntsmen.
follow;

Until the noble deer, through toil bereav'd of strength,
His long and sinewy legs then failing him at length,

The villages attempts, enraged, not giving way

To anything he meets now at his sad decay.

The cruel ravenous hounds and bloody hunters near,
This noblest beast of chase, that vainly doth but fear,
Some bank or quickset finds; to which his haunch opposed,
He turns upon his foes, that soon have him inclosed.
The churlish-throated hounds then holding him at bay,
And as their cruel fangs on his harsh skin they lay,
With his sharp-pointed head he dealeth deadly wounds.
The hunter, coming in to help his wearied hounds,
He desperately assails; until opprest by force,
He who the mourner is to his own dying corse,
Upon the ruthless earth his precious tears lets fall
To forests that belongs.

[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.]

EFORE I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe,

Great Love, some legacies: I here bequeath
Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see;
If they be blind, then, Love, I give them thee;
My tongue to Fame; to ambassadors mine ears;
To women, or the sea, my tears;

Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore,

By making me serve her who had twenty more,

That I should give to none but such as had too much before.

My constancy I to the planets give;

My truth to them who at the court do live;

Mine ingenuity and openness

To Jesuits; to buffoons my pensiveness;

My silence to any who abroad have been;
My money to a Capuchin.

Thou, Love, taught'st me, by appointing me
To love there, where no love received can be,
Only to give to such as have no good capacity.
My faith I give to Roman Catholics;
All my good works unto the schismatics
Of Amsterdam; my best civility
And courtship to an university;

My modesty I give to soldiers bare;
My patience let gamesters share;

Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making me
Love her that holds my love disparity,

Only to give to those that count my gifts indignity.

I give my reputation to those

Which were my friends; mine industry to foes;

To schoolmen I bequeath my doubtfulness;

My sickness to physicians, or excess;

To Nature all that I in rhyme have writ;
And to my company my wit:

Thou, Love, by making me adore

Her who begot this love in me before,

Taught'st me to make as though I gave, when I do but restore.

To him for whom the passing bell next tolls

I give my physic books; my written rolls

Of moral counsels I to Bedlam give;

My brazen medals, unto them which live

In want of bread; to them which pass among
All foreigners, my English tongue:

Thou, Love, by making me love one
Who thinks her friendship a fit portion.

For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion.

Therefore I'll give no more, but I'll undo

The world by dying, because love dies too.

Then all your beauties will be no more worth

Than gold in mines, where none doth draw it forth,
And all your graces no more use shall have

Than a sun-dial in a grave.

Thou, Love, taught'st me by making me.

Love her who doth neglect both me and thee,

To invent and practise this one way to annihilate all three.