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That Lucy here a scarecrow is, in London town an ass!^[1]

And ended still its sad complaints with offers of its life,

twenty hundred times exclaimed, ‘Oh! haven’t you a knife?’

“There’s brawny limbs in Stratford town, there’s hearts without a fear,

There’s tender souls who really have compassion on a deer;

And last night was without a moon, a night of nights to give

Fit dying consolation to a deer that may not live.

“The dappled brute lay on the grass, a knife was in its side;

Another from its yearning throat let forth its vital tide.

It said, as tho’ escaping from the worst that could befall,

‘Now, thank my stars, I shall not smoke on board at Charlecote Hall!’

“Oh, happy deer! Above your friends exalted high by fate,

You’re not condemned like all the herds to Lucy’s glutton plate;

But every morsel of your flesh, from shoulder to the haunch,

Tho’ bred and killed in Charlecote Park, hath lined an honest paunch.”

ssss1.“In the country a scarecrow, in London an ass!”—Shakespeare’s Satire on Sir Thomas Lucy.