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While the hound bays not due to a panting tongue,
He still pursues the fox he would do wrong,
Whose craftiness by such a chase is raised,
Thus by such skill his heart is made more strong.
Soon enough the proud hound pursues a scent,
That forms a circle round a familiar scene
That is his own from his own low tail spent,
Where on its capture it doth smell obscene.
Were the efforts of his labour worth the prize?
Now he himself is the hound he must detest,
His prey is stained but of the foxes size,
But it does seem like a fruitless, failed conquest.
'Tis not so good to chase what you can't catch,
Though oft by it you'll meet your perfect match.
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