Sonnet 67

Like as a huntsman after weary chase,
Seeing the game from him escapt away,
Sits down to rest him in some shady place,
With panting hounds beguiled of their prey,
So after long pursuit and vain assay,

When I all weary had the chase forsook,
The gentle dear returned the self-same way,
Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brook.
There she beholding me with milder look,
Sought not to fly, but fearless still did bide,

Till I in hand her yet half trembling took,
And with her own goodwill her firmly tied.
Strange thing me seemed to see a beast so wild,
So goodly won with her own will beguiled.

- Edmund Spenser

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