[113] The skies, the fountains, every region near
[114] Seem’d all one mutual cry: I never heard
115 So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.
The. My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,
So flew’d, so sanded; and their heads are hung
With ears that sweep away the morning dew;
[119] Crook-knee’d, and dew-lapp’d like Thessalian bulls;
120 Slow in pursuit, but match’d in mouth like bells,
Each under each. A cry more tuneable
Was never holla’d to, nor cheer’d with horn,