The week at Whinwood next to Christmas week.
Six guns, no more, but all good men and true,
Of the clean–visaged sort, with ruddy cheek
Which knows not care. Light–hearted Montagu
At the cover’s end, as down the wind they flew,
Has stopped his score of pheasants, every beak,
Without more thought of Juliet than of you;
And still I hear his loud–mouthed Purdeys speak.
Tybalt and Paris, with a bet on hand,
Have fired at the same woodcock. “Truce,” say I,
“To civil jars.” For look, as by command,
Bunch following bunch, a hundred pheasants fly.
Now battle, murder, death on every side!
Right, left, left, right, we pile up agony,
Till night stops all. Then home in chastened pride,
With aching heads, our slaughter satisfied.