Which thou didst shew, see how they friske and play,
And euerie where doe run about at will:
Yea when the lion markes them for his prey,
They ouer hils and rockes can flie away:
But when that lion fell shall follow me
To shed my blood, O whither shall I flee?
103.
Those sweet-voic’d birds, whose aires thou dost commend,
To which the echoing wood returnes replie,
Though thee they please, yet me they do offend: