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Pause here, and think: a monitory rhime
Consult life's filent clock, thy bounding vein;
EPITAPH ON A HARE.
Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,
Nor swifter greyhound follow, Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,
Nor e'er heard huntsman's ballo',
Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nursed with tender care, And to domestic bounds confined,
Was still a wild Jack-hare,
Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night, He did it with a jealous look,
And, when he could, would bite.
His diet was of wheaten bread
And milk, and oats, and straw; Thistles, or lettuces instead,
With fand to scour his maw.
On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippins' rufset peel,
Sliced carrot pleased him well.
A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound, To skip and gambol like a fawa,
Ard swing his rump around.
His frisking was at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear,
Or when a storm drew near.
Eight years and five round-rolling moons
He thus faw steal away, Dozing out all his idle noons,
And every night at play.
I kept him for his humour' fake,
For he would oft beguile My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.
But now beneath his walnut shade
He finds his long last home, And waits, in snug concealment laid,
Till gentler Pufs shall come.
He, still more aged, feels the shocks,
From which no care can save, And, partner once of Tiney's box,
Muft Soon partake his grave.