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64 As when th' Autumnal Morne with ruddy hue Looks through the glen besprent with silver hore, Across the stubble, brushing off the dew, The younkling Fowler gins the fieldes explore, And, wheeling oft, his Pointer veres afore, And oft, sagacious of the tainted gale, The fluttering bird betrays; with thondring rore The shott resounds, loud echoing through the dale; But still the Younkling kills nor partridge, snipe, nor quail.

Yet still the queint excuse is at command; The dog was rash, a swallow twitterd by, The gun hung fire, and keenness shook his hand, And there the wind or bushes hurt his eye. So can the Knight his mind still satisfye: A lazie Fiend, hight, Still whispers some excuse, some gilden lye, Himselfe did gild to cheat himselfe outright; God help the man bewitchd in such ungracious plight.