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 seemd to see a beast so wyld, so goodly wonne with her owne will beguyld.