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The grewnd, pursuing at an inch, Doth cote him, never loosing. Continually he snatches In vaine, but nothing in his mouth, save only hair, he catches."
"I gat me to the knap Of this same hill, and there behelde of this strange course the hap, In which the beaste seemes one while caught, and ere a man would thinke Doth quickly give the grewnd the slip, and from his biting shrinke; And, like a wilie fox, he runs not forth directly out, Nor makes a winlas over all the champion fields about, But, doubling and indenting, still avoydes his enemie's lips, An turning short, as swift about as spinning-wheele he wips, To disappoint the snatch.
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