ORION

Sirrah, wast thou that called us from our game? How durst thou (being but a petty God) Disturb me in the entrance of my sports? It's I, dread Lord, that humbly will obey. A tedious discourse, built on no ground, A silly fancy Autumn hast thou told, Which no Philosophy does warrantise, No old received poetry confirms. I will not grace thee by confuting thee: Yet in a jest (since thou railest so gainst dogs) I'll speak a word or two in their defence: That creature's best that comes most near to men. That dogs of all come nearest, thus I prove: First they excel us in all outward sense, Which no one of experience will deny, They hear, they smell, they see better then we, To come to speech they have it questionless, Although we understand them not so well: They bark as good old Saxon as may be, And that in more variety then we: For they have one voice when they are in chase, Another, when they wrangle for their meat, Another, when we beat them out of doors. That they have reason, this I will allege, They choose those things that are most fit for them, And shun the contrary all that they may, They know what is for their own diet best, And seek about for't very carefully. At sighed of any whip they run away, As runs a thief from noise of hue and cry: Nor live they on the sweat of others brows, But have their trades to get their living with, Hunting and conie-catching, two fine arts: Yea, there be of them as there be of men, Of every occupation more or less: Some carriers, and they fetch, some watermen, And they will dive and swim when you bid them: Some butchers, and they worry sheep by night: Some cooks, and they do nothing but turn spits. Chrysippus holds, dogs are Logicians, In that by study and by canvasing, They can distinguish betwixt three several things, As when he comes where three broad ways meet, And of those three hath stayed at two of them, By which he guesseth that the game went not, Without more pause he runneth on the third, Which, as Chrysippus says, insinuates, As if he reasoned thus within himself: Either he went this, that, or yonder way, But neither that, nor yonder, therefore this: But whither they Logicians be or no, Cinicks they are, for they will snarl and bite, Right courtiers to flatter and to fawn, Valiant to set upon the enemies, Most faithful and most constant to their friends; Nay they are wise, as Homer witnesseth, Who talking of Ulysses coming home, Says all his household, but Argus his Dog, Had quite forgotten him: I, and his deep insight, Nor Pallas Art in altering of his shape, Nor his base weeds, nor absence twenty years, Could go beyond, or any way delude. That Dogs Physicians are, thus I infer, They are never sick, but they know their disease, And find out means to ease them of their grief, Special good Surgeons to cure dangerous wounds: For strucken with a stake into the flesh, This policy they use to get it out: They trail one of their feet upon the ground, And gnaw the flesh about where the wound is, Till it be clean drawn out: and then, because Ulcers and sores kept fowl, are hardly cured, They lick and purify it with their tongue, And well observe Hippocrates old rule, The only medicine for the foot, is rest: For if they have the least hurt in their feet, They bear them up, and look they be not stirred: When humours rise, they eat a sovereign herb, Whereby what cloys their stomachs, they cast up, And as some writers of experience tell, They were the first invented vomiting. Shamest thou not, Autumn, unadvisedly To slander such rare creatures as they be? What tribute should I pay you out of nought? Hunter's do hunt for pleasure, not for gain. While Dogdays last, the harvest safely thrives: The sun burns hight, to finish up fruits grouth: There is no bloodletting to make men weak: Physicians with their Cataposia, r. tittle Elinctoria Masticatorum and Cataplasmata: Their Gargarisms, Clisters, and pitched clothes, Their perfumes, sirrups, and their triacles, Refrain to poison the sick patients, And dare not minister till I be out. Then none will bath, and so are fewer drowned: All lust is perilsome, therefore less used. In brief, the year without me cannot stand: Summer, I am thy staff, and thy right hand. I am content, though hunting be not out, We will go hunt in hell for better hap. One parting blow, my hearts, unto our friends, To bid the fields and huntsmen all farewell: Toss up your bugle horns unto the stars. Toil finds ease, peace follows after wars.