XXX.
Each day affords a floode of roring joy;
The Springs green months ycharmd with Cocking flee,
The jolly Horſe-race Summers grand employ,
His Harveſts Sports the foxe and hare deſtroy;
But the ſubſtantial Comforts of the Bowl
Are thine, O Winter! thine to fire the Boy
With Englands cauſe, and ſwell his mightie ſoul,
Till dizzy with his peres about the flore he rowl.
XXXI.
Hangs many a badgers ſnout and foxes tail,
The which he had through many a hedge perſewd,
Through marſh, through meer, dyke, ditch, and delve and dale;
To hear his hair-breadth ſcapes would make you pale;
Which well the groome hight Patrick can relate,
Whileas on holidays he quaffs his ale;
And not one circumſtance will he forgett,
So keen the braggard chorle is on his hunting ſett.
