There leaving him to his repose,
Secured from pursuit of foes,
And wanting nothing but a song, 165
And a well-tun’d theorbo hung
Upon a bough, to ease the pain
His tugg’d ears suffer’d, with a strain,
They both drew up, to march in quest
Of his great leader and the rest. 170

For ORSIN (who was more renown’d
For stout maintaining of his ground
In standing fight, than for pursuit,
As being not so quick of foot)
Was not long able to keep pace 175
With others that pursu’d the chace;
But found himself left far behind,
Both out of heart and out of wind: 
Griev’d to behold his Bear pursu’d
So basely by a multitude; 180
And like to fall, not by the prowess,
But numbers of his coward foes. 
He rag’d, and kept as heavy a coil as
Stout Hercules for loss of Hylas;
Forcing the vallies to repeat 185
The accents of his sad regret. 
He beat his breast, and tore his hair,
For loss of his dear Crony Bear;
That Eccho, from the hollow ground,
His doleful wailings did resound 190
More wistfully, by many times,
Than in small poets splay-foot rhimes
That make her, in their rueful stories
To answer to int’rogatories,
And most unconscionably depose 195
To things of which she nothing knows;
And when she has said all she can say,
’Tis wrested to the lover’s fancy. 
Quoth he, O whither, wicked Bruin
Art thou fled to my —­ Eccho, Ruin? 200
I thought th’ hadst scorn’d to budge a step
For fear. (Quoth Eccho) Marry guep. 
Am not I here to take thy part? 
Then what has quelled thy stubborn heart? 
Have these bones rattled, and this head 205
So often in thy quarrel bled? 
Nor did I ever winch or grudge it,
For thy dear sake. (Quoth she) Mum budget
Think’st thou ‘twill not be laid i’ th’ dish
Thou turn’dst thy back?  Quoth Eccho, Fish. 210
To run from those t’hast overcome
Thus cowardly?  Quoth Eccho, Mum. 
But what a vengeance makes thee fly
From me too, as thine enemy? 
Or if thou hast no thought of me, 215
Nor what I have endur’d for thee,
Yet shame and honour might prevail
To keep thee thus from turning tail: 
For who would grudge to spend his blood in
His honour’s cause?  Quoth she, A puddin. 220
This said, his grief to anger turn’d,
Which in his manly stomach burn’d;
Thirst of revenge, and wrath, in place
Of sorrow, now began to blaze. 
He vow’d the authors of his woe 225
Should equal vengeance undergo;
And with their bones and flesh pay dear