Of hound deserted, whipt, cow’ring away.
Horses, again; does not the rule apply?
You tell by a steed’s neigh that mares are nigh;
Straightway he feels the spur of wingéd love;
They interpret his challenge to the drove.
But—nostrils spread, the neigh become a snort;
War steeds, jangling armour, pass—he would join the sport!
Nor are birds, ospreys, gulls, without their choice
Of vents for feeling; all unlike the voice,
In wooing, to the hunger-scream of strife,