POET She hearkens for his hounds and for his horn: Anon she hears them chant it lustily, and all in haste she coasteth to the cry. How she outruns the wind, the poor wretch! For now she knows it is no gentle chase. And as she runs, the bushes in the way . . . . . . . . some kiss her face, some twine about her thigh to make her stay. By this she hears the hounds are at a bay . . . the timorous yelping of the hounds appals her senses and her spirit confounds. Even now . . . she hears a merry horn, whereat she leaps that was but late forlorn. For now reviving joy bids her rejoice. . . With that . . she spied the hunted boar, whose frothy mouth, bepainted all with red, a second fear through all her sinews spread. A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways she treads the path that she untreads again. By this, far off she hears Adonis' voice. As falcons to the lure, away she flies: the grass stoops not, she treads on it so light, and in her haste unfortunately spies the foul boar's conquest on her fair delight which seen, her eyes, as murd'red with the view, like stars ashamed of day, themselves withdrew."