Of late, advances to the rack.
“Why were the fellow’s hands so slack?
Here’s hardly any straw at all,
Brush down those cobwebs from the wall.
Pray how much labour would it ask?”
While thus he undertakes the task,
To dust, and rummage by degrees,
The Stag’s exalted horns he sees:
Then calling all his folks around,
He lays him breathless on the ground.