Athirst the stag's warm blood to taste,
Whose antlers[1] are the hunter's prize.
The murderers have bent their bow,
They ransack forest, hill, and plain;
Whilst clad in rags I nightly go
A beggar on my own domain.
Where once I rode in lordly state,
Whilst greeting vassals bow'd the head;
I fear to tap the cotter's gate,
And beg in pity's name for bread.