Yseult de Lacy
As all doe have their pleasures, know 'tis mine
To leave alike the splendours of the court,
The scholar's books, the sweet fruit of the vine,
And take delight in venery's noble sport.
And hotly doe I seek thee, fairest hinde,
Faste on thy trail, this sweetest prize to gaine --
Thy strategies cannot outwit my minde,
Though thou dost leap and hide and turn again.
Yet now as alwayes, when thou'rt brought to bay
My fierce resolve on slaughter's swift displac'd
By gentle pittie; 'tis strange, thou may'st well say,
To see the hunter grieve the hinde be chas'd.
My hinde, were thou the hunter, I the prey,
Thou'd neede no skill to bring thy quarry near --
My life before thee willingly I'd lay
To be thy hart, as thou art mine own deere.
copyright Christine M Robertson 1999