The Hunting of the Hare; With her last Will and Testament.  

As 'twas performed on Bamstead Downes,  
By Coney Catchers, and the●r Hounds.   
To a pleasant ●ew Tune.  

OF all delights that earth doth yield  
Give me a pack of Hounds in field  
Whose echo shall throughout the sky,  
Make J●ve admire our Harmony,  
and wish that he a Mortal were,  
to view the Pastime we have here.   

I will tell you of a rare Scent,  
Where many a gallant horse was spent  
On Bamstead Downs a Hare we found,  
Which lead us all a smoking round,  
o'er Hedge and Ditch away she goes,  
admiring her approaching Foes.   

But when she found her strength to waste,  
She parleyed with the Hounds at last:   

Kind Hounds (quoth she) forbear to kill  
A harmless Hare, that ne'er thought ill;  
and if your Master sport do crave,  
I'll lead a Scent as he would have.   Huntsman. 

Away, away, thou art alone,  
Make hast I say, and get thee gone▪  
we'll give the Law for half a mile,  
To see if thou canst us beguile:  
but then expect a thundering cry,  
made by us, and our harmony.   Hare. 

Now since you set my life so sleight,  
I'●e make Black-sloven turn to white▪  
And Yorkshire Grace, that runs at all,  
I'll make him wish he were in Stall:  
and Sorrel, he that ●…éems to fly,  
I'll make him supple ere he die.   

Let Barnard's Bay do what he may,  
Or Barons Bay, that now and than,  
Did interrupt me on my Way,  
I'll make him neither set nor play  
or constant Robin, though he lie  
at his advantage, what care I.   

Will. Hatton he hath done me wrong,  
He struck me as I run along,  
And with one pat made so sore,  
That I ran réeling too and fro;  
but if I die his Master tell  
that fool shall ring my passing-bell.   Hounds. 

Alas, poor Hare! it is our nature  
To kill thee, and no other creature,  
For our Master wants a bit,  
And thou wilt well become the spit;  
h'l eat thy flesh, we'll pick thy bone,  
this is thy doom so get the gone.   Hare. 

Your Master may have better cheer,  
For I am dry and butter's dear:  
But if he please to make a friend,  
He's better give a P●ddings-end;  
for I being killed, he sport will lack,  
& I must hang on Huntsman back.   Hounds. 

Alas Poor Hare! we pity thee,  
If without nature it would agree;  
But all thy doubling shifts I fear,  
Will not prevail, thy death's so near  
then make thy will, it may be that  
may save thee, or I know not what.   Hare. 

Then I bequeath my body free,  
Unto your Master's courtesy:  
And if he please my life to grant,  
I'll be his game when sport is scant;  
but if I die, each greedy hound  
divided my entrails on the ground.   
 

IMprimis, I bequeath my head  
To him that a fair fool doth wed?  
who hath before her maiden head lost  
I would not have the Proverb crossed,  
which l' be hard mongst many qiblets▪  
set the Hare's head 'gainst the Goose giblets.   

Item, I do give and bequeath  
To Men in debt (after my death)  
My subtle-scent, that so they may  
Beware of such and would betray  
them to a miserable Fate,  
by Blood-hoinds from the Compter-gate.   

Item, I to a Tirn-coate give  
(That he may more obscurely live)  
My swift & sudden doublings, which  
Will make him politic and rich  
though at the last with many wound●  
I wish him killed by his own hound's▪   

Item, I give into their hands,  
That purchase Dean and Chapters lands,  
My wretched jealousies and fears,  
Mixed with the salt of Orphan's tears,  
that long vexations may presever,  
to plague them and their Heirs for ever.   

Before I die (for life is scant)  
I would supply men's proper want,  
And therefore I bequeath unto  
The scrivener (give the devil his due)  
that Forgeth, Swears, & then Forswears,  
(to save his credit) both my ears.   

I give to some Sequestered man,  
My skin to make a jacket on:  
And I bequeath my feet to they  
That shortly mean to run away:  
when Truth is speake●, falshood's dumb,  
Foxes must fly, when Lions come.   

To Fiddlers (for all trads must live)  
To serve for strings, my guts I give  
For Gamesters that do play at tut,  
And love the sport, I give my skut  
but last of all (in this sad dump)  
to Tower-hill I bequeath my Rump   Hounds. 

Was ever Hounds so basely crossed,  
Our Masters call us off so fast,  
That we the scent have almost lost,  
And they then must rule the roast,  
therefore kind Hare we'll pardon you.   Hare. 

Thanks gentle Hounds, & so adieu.  
And since your Master hath pardoned me  
I'll lead you all to Banbury,  
Where John Turner hath a larger room  
To entertain all Guests that come,  
to laugh & quaff in Wine & Béer,  
a full Carouse to your Gallée●e.   
FINIS.   

London, Printed for F. Coles, T. Ve●e, and J. Wright.