Ye sluggards, who murder your life time…

Ye sluggards, who murder your life time in sleep, Awake and pursue the fleet hare; From life say what joy, say what pleasure you reap, That e'er could with hunting compare. When Phoebus begins to enlighten the morn, The huntsman unkennels his hounds, Enraptur'd we glow at the sound of the horn, Whilst the woods the sweet echo resound.

The courtier, the lawyer, the priest, has his view, Nay, every profession the same; But sportsmen, ye mortals, no pleasure pursue, But such as accrue from the game. While drunkards are pleas'd in the joys of the cup, And turn into day every night, At the break of each morn the huntsman is up, And bounds o'er the lands with delight.

Then quickly, my lads, to the forest repair, O'er dales and o'er valleys let's fly; For who can, ye gods, feel a moment of care, When pursuing the hounds in full cry. Thus each morning, each day, in raptures we pass, And desire no comfort to share, But at night to refresh with the bottle and glass, And feed on the spoil of the hare.