LADY. What, out of breath?
They run but ill that run themselves to death.
SIR RALPH. They might make, then, less haste, and keep their wind.
LADY. Why, then, they see the hounds brings death behind.
SIR RALPH. Then, 'twere as good for them at first to stay,
As to run long, and run their lives away.
LADY. Ay, but the stoutest of you all that's here
Would run from death and nimbly scud for fear.
Now, by my troth, I pity these poor elves.[308]
SIR RALPH. Well, they have made us but bad sport to-day.
LADY. Yes, 'twas my sport to see them 'scape away.
WILL. I wish that I had been at one buck's fall.
LADY. Out, thou wood-tyrant! thou art worst of all.
WILL. A wood-man,[309] lady, but no tyrant I.