Recording oft what grace each one had found,
What hope of speed, what dread of long delays.
The wild forest; the clothed holts with green;
With reins availed, and swift y-breathed horse,
With cry of hounds, and merry blasts between,
Where we did chase the fearful hart of force.
The void walls eke that harboured us each night,
Wherewith, alas! reviveth in my breast
The sweet accord, such sleeps as yet delight
The pleasant dream, the quiet bed of rest;