Sonnet LXVII

Lyke as a huntsman after weary chace,

Seeing the game from him escapt away:sits downe to rest him in some shady place,with panting hounds beguiled of their pray.

So after long pursuit and vaine assay,when I all weary had the chace forsooke,the gentle deare returnd the selfe-same way,thinking to quench her thirst at the next brooke.

There she beholding me with mylder looke,sought not to fly, but fearelesse still did bide:till I in hand her yet halfe trembling tooke,and with her owne goodwill hir fyrmely tyde.

Strange thing me seemed to see a beast so wyld,so goodly wonne with her owne will beguyld.