Lyke as a huntsman after weary chace, <br />Seeing the game from him escapt away: <br />sits downe to rest him in some shady place, <br />with panting hounds beguiled of their pray. <br />So after long pursuit and vaine assay, <br />when I all weary had the chace forsooke, <br />the gentle deare returnd the selfe-same way, <br />thinking to quench her thirst at the next brooke. <br />There she beholding me with mylder looke, <br />sought not to fly, but fearelesse still did bide: <br />till I in hand her yet halfe trembling tooke, <br />and with her owne goodwill hir fyrmely tyde. <br />Strange thing me seemed to see a beast so wyld, <br />so goodly wonne with her owne will beguyld.<br /><br />Edmund Spenser<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-lxvii-2/
