XVII Sonnet
Like as a huntsman after weary chace,
Seeing the game from him escaped away,
Sits down to rest him in some shady place,
With panting hounds beguilèd of their prey;
So after long pursuit and vain assay, 5
When I all weary had the chace forsook,
The gentle deer returned the self-same way,
Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brook;
There she beholding me with milder look,
Sought not to fly, but fearless still did bide, 10
Till I in hand her yet half trembling took,
And with her own good-will her firmly tied;
Strange thing meseemed to see a beast so wild
So goodly won, with her own will beguiled.
Edmund Spenser.