mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles
how he outruns the wind and with what care
he cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles:
the many musets through the which he goes
are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.
sometimes he runs among a flock of sheep,
to make the cunning hounds mistake their smell,
and sometimes where earth-delving conies keep,
to stop the loud pursuers in their yell,
and sometimes sorteth with a herd of deer:
danger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear:
for there his smell with others being mingled,
the hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,
ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled
with much ado the cold fault cleanly out:
then do they spend their mouths: Echo replies,
as if another chase were in the skies.
by this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,
stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,
to hearken if his foes pursue him still:
anon their loud alarums he doth hear;
and now his grief may be compared well
to one sore sick that hears the passing-bell.
then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch
turn, and return, indenting with the way;
each envious brier his weary legs doth scratch,
each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay:
for misery is trodden on by many,
and being low never relieved by any.
i asked bythos for a song for this & all i got were clever jokes at my expense.