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.