Classic Poem

I am the Hunt which rathe and early rise;
(My bottle filled with wine in any wise)
Two draughts I drink, to stay my steps withal,
For each foot one because I would not fall;
Then take my Hound in liam me behind,
The stately Hart, in frith or fell to find.
And while I seek his slot where he hath fed,
The sweet birds sing to cheer my drowsy head.
And when my Hound doth strain upon good vent,
I must confess the same doth me content.
But when I have my coverts walked about,
And harboured fast the Hart from coming out:
Then I return to make a grave report,
Whereas I find th' assembly doth resort.

The dinner done, I go straightway again
Unto my marks and show my Master plain,
Then put my Hound upon the view to draw
And rouse the Hart out of his lair by law.
O gamesters all, a little by your leave,
Can you such joys in trifling games conceive?