The Faulconers Hunting Poem by William Basse

Eirely in the morne, when the night's ouerworne,
and Apollo with his golden beames:
The Day starre ouertakes, and Cinthia forsakes,
to frolike with his siluer streames.
We with our delights, and the Haggard in our flights,
that afronts the Celestiall Spheare:
With lures and with traines, we gallop ore the plaines,
to beholde a Cancecleere.
From the fist shee goes, and her nimbly throwes,
to out flye the whistling winde:
Onward still amaine, ouer bush ouer plaine,
till her Gelding gen faintly she findes:
An vpshot then she makes, till the cloudes she ouertakes,
her ambition rests not there:
But mounting still she flies, like a Phœnix in the skies,
and comes downe with a Cancecleere.
Mounting in the Skie, to the shape of a Flye,
like a sparke of Elementall fire:
Upward then she tends to make good her place amends,
till the Retriese giues her desire:
No Swallow, nor doue, their clipping wings can moue
like her when i'the Cloudes they appeare:
She comes downe from aboue, like the thunderbolt of loue,
and doth stoope with a Cancecleere.
Both young and olde prepare, to the sport that is so rare
from their weary labour comming for to see:
Lifting vp their eyes from the Plaines to the Skies,
where the wonders of the Welkins be:
The Spirits of the Ayre in huddles doe repaire,
the Musicke of the Bels for to heare,
And quickly flye apart affrighted at the heart,
when she stoopes to the Cancecleere.
The Mallard with complaints in her golden feathers faints
while the Haggard with the coy disdaine:
Tryumphant in her prey, concludes the Euening gray
with a pleasant and a louely gaine:
Homeward then we wend, & the twilight then we spent
in discourse our delights to heare:
We tast the Quaile we kild, and carowse in what is filld
which goes round with a Cancecleere.