His painted nimble wings, and vanisht quite away.
The Palmer seeing his left empty place, ix
And his slow eyes beguiled of their sight,
Woxe sore affraid, and standing still a space,
Gaz’d after him, as fowle escapt by flight;
At last him turning to his charge behight,
With trembling hand his troubled pulse gan try;
Where finding life not yet dislodged quight,
He much reioyst, and courd it tenderly,
As chicken newly hatcht, from dreaded destiny.