Can view that pampered steed, his master’s joy,
  His minion, and his daily care, well clothed,
  Well fed with every nicer cate; no cost,
  No labour spared; who, when the flying chase
  Broke from the copse, without a rival led
  The numerous train:  now a sad spectacle
  Of pride brought low, and humbled insolence,
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  Drove like a panniered ass, and scourged along. 
  While these with loosened reins, and dangling heels,
  Hang on their reeling palfreys, that scarce bear
  Their weights; another in the treacherous bog
  Lies floundering half engulfed.  What biting thoughts
  Torment the abandoned crew!  Old age laments
  His vigour spent:  the tall, plump, brawny youth
  Curses his cumbrous bulk; and envies now
  The short Pygmean race, he whilom kenn’d
  With proud insulting leer.  A chosen few
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  Alone the sport enjoy, nor droop beneath
  Their pleasing toils.  Here, huntsman, from this height
  Observe yon birds of prey; if I can judge,
  ’Tis there the villain lurks; they hover round
  And claim him as their own.  Was I not right? 
  See! there he creeps along; his brush he drags,
  And sweeps the mire impure; from his wide jaws
  His tongue unmoistened hangs; symptoms too sure
  Of sudden death.  Ha! yet he flies, nor yields
  To black despair.  But one loose more, and all
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  His wiles are vain.  Hark! through yon village now
  The rattling clamour rings.  The barns, the cots
  And leafless elms return the joyous sounds. 
  Through every homestall, and through every yard,
  His midnight walks, panting, forlorn, he flies;
  Through every hole he sneaks, through every jakes
  Plunging he wades besmeared, and fondly hopes
  In a superior stench to lose his own: 
  But faithful to the track, the unerring hounds
  With peals of echoing vengeance close pursue.
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  And now distressed, no sheltering covert near,
  Into the hen-roost creeps, whose walls with gore
  Distained attest his guilt.  There, villain, there
  Expect thy fate deserved.  And soon from thence
  The pack inquisitive, with clamour loud,
  Drag out their trembling prize; and on his blood
  With greedy transport feast.  In bolder notes
  Each sounding horn proclaims the felon dead: 
  And all the assembled village shouts for joy. 
  The farmer who beholds his mortal foe
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  Stretched at his feet, applauds the glorious deed,
  And grateful calls us to a short repast! 
  In the full glass the liquid amber smiles,
  Our native product.  And his good old mate
  With choicest viands heaps the liberal board,
  To crown our triumphs, and reward our toils. 
     Here must the instructive Muse (but with respect)
  Censure that numerous pack, that crowd of state,
  With which the vain profusion of the great
  Covers the lawn, and shakes the trembling