1 Thus, by the music, we may know
When noble wits a-hunting go,
Through groves that on Parnassus grow.

2 The Muses all the chase adorn;
My friend on Pegasus is borne;
And young Apollo winds the horn.

3 Having old Gratius in the wind,
No pack of critics e'er could find,
Or he know more of his own mind.

4 Here huntsmen with delight may read
How to choose dogs for scent or speed,
And how to change or mend the breed;

5 What arms to use, or nets to frame,
Wild beasts to combat or to tame;
With all the myst'ries of that game.

6 But, worthy friend! the face of war
In ancient times doth differ far
From what our fiery battles are.

7 Nor is it like, since powder known,
That man, so cruel to his own,
Should spare the race of beasts alone.

8 No quarter now, but with the gun
Men wait in trees from sun to sun,
And all is in a moment done.

9 And therefore we expect your next
Should be no comment, but a text
To tell how modern beasts are vex'd.

10 Thus would I further yet engage
Your gentle Muse to court the age
With somewhat of your proper rage;

11 Since none does more to Phoebus owe,
Or in more languages can show
Those arts which you so early know.