And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer;
Danger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear.
“For there, his smell, with others being mingled,
The hot-scent snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,
Ceasing their clamorous cry, till they have singled
With much ado, the cold fault clearly out;
Then do they spend their mouths: Echo replies
As if another chase were in the skies.
“By this poor Wat, far off upon a hill,
Stands on his hinder legs with listening fear,