Or have you mark'd a partridge quake, Viewing the towering falcon nigh? She cuddles low behind the brake: Nor would she stay; nor dares she fly.

Like as a feareful partridge, that is fledd From the sharpe hauke which her attacked neare, And falls to ground to seeke for succor theare, Whereas the hungry spaniells she does spye, With greedy jawes her ready for to teare.

Who finds the partridge in the puttock's nest But may imagine how the bird was dead, Although the kite soar with unbloodied beak?

Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.

Now fitted the halter, now travers'd the cart, And often took leave; but was loth to part.

To err is human.