As the yong stag, vhen vinter hids his face,
Giuing vnto a better season place,
At breake of day comes furth vanton and faire,
Leauing the quiet voods, his suet repaire,
Now on the hils, now by the riuer's sides,
He leaps, he runs, and vher his foote him guides,
Both sure and solitaire, prayes on suet flowrs,
Far fra al shephards and their helmish bours;
He doth not feare the net nor murdering dart,
Til that, pour beast, a schaft be in his hart,
Of on quho pitilesse in embush laye:
So innocent vandring that fatall daye
Vas I, alas! vhen vith a heauenlie eie,
Ye gaue the blowe vher of I needs must die.