How niggard of his strength, the wise old hound
Hangs in the rear, till some important point
Rouse all his diligence, or till the Chase
Sinking he finds: then to the head he springs,
With thirst of glory fir’d, and wins the prize.
Huntsman, take heed; they stop in full career!
Yon crowding flocks, that at a distance gaze,
Have haply foil’d the turf. See! that old hound,
How busily he works, but dares not trust
His doubtful sense; draw yet a wider ring.