Selected quad for the lemma: death_n

Word A	Word B	Word C	Word D	Occurrence	Frequency Band	MI	MI Band	Prominent
death_n	body_n	die_v	life_n	17,544	5	4.8615	4	true

Text snippets containing the quad

ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
B03727	The hunting of the hare; with her last will and testament. As 'twas performed on Bamstead Downes, by conny catchers, and their hounds. To a pleasant new tune.		1675 (1675)	Wing H3770A; ESTC R178321	1,733	1

The Hunting of the Hare With her last Will and Testament As 't was performed on Bamstead Downes By Conny Catchers and the●r Hounds To a pleasa●t ●ew Tune OF all delights that earth doth yield Give me a pack of Hounds in field Whose eccho shall throughout the sky Make J●ve admire our Harmony and wish that he a Mortal were to view the Pastime we have here I will tell you of a rare Scent Where many a gallant horse was spent On Bamstead Downs a Hare we found Which lead us all a smoaking round o're Hedg and Ditch away she goes admiring her approaching Foes But when she found her strength to wast She parly'd with the Hounds at last Kind Hounds quoth she forbear to kill A harmless Hare that nere thought ill and if your Master sport do crave I 'le lead a Scent as he would have Hunts-man Away away thou art alone Make hast I say and get thée gone Wée'l give the Law for half a mile To sée if thou canst us beguile but then expect a thundring cry made by us and our harmony Hare Now since you set my life so sleight I'●e make Black-sloven turn to white And Yorkshire Gray that runs at all I 'le make him wish he were in Stall and Sorrel he that ●…éems to fly I 'le make him supple ere he dye Let Barnards Bay do what he may Or Barrons Bay that now and than Did interrupt me on my Way I 'le make him neither set nor play or constant Robin though he lye at his advantage what care I. Will. Hatton he hath done me wrong He struck me as I run along And with one pat made so sore That I ran réeling too and fro but if I dye his Master tell that fool shall ring my passing-bell Hounds Alas poor Hare it is our nature To kill thée and no other creature For our Master wants a bit And thou wilt well become the spit h'l eat thy flesh we 'l pick thy bone this is thy doom so get the gone Hare Your Master may have better chear For I am dry and butter's dear But if he please to make a frend He 's better give a P●ddings-end for I being kil'd he sport will lack I must hang on Hunts-man back Hounds Alas Poor Hare we pitty thée If without nature 't would agrée But all thy dubling shifts I fear Will not prevail thy death 's so near then make thy will it may be that may save thée or I know not what Hare Then I bequeath my body frée Vnto your Masters courtesie And if he please my life to grant I 'le be his game when sport is scant but if I dye each gréedy hound divided my entrals on the ground IMprimis I bequeath my head To him that a fair fool doth wed who hath before her maiden head lost I would not have the Proverb crost which l' be hard mongst many qiblets set the Hares head ' gainst the Goose giblets Item I do give and bequeath To Men in debt after my death My subtle-scent that so they may Beware of such and would betray them to a miserable Fate by Blood-hoinds from the Compter-gate Item I to a Tirn-coate give That he may more obscurely live My swift sudden doublings which Will make him politick and rich though at the last with many wound● I wish him kild by his own hound● Item I give into their hands That purchase Dean and Chapters lands My wretched jealousies and fears Mixt with the salt of Orphans tears that long vexations may presever to plague them and their Heirs for ever Before I dye for life is scant I would supply Mens proper want And therefore I bequeath unto The scriv'ner give the devil his due that Forgeth Swears then Forswears to save his credit both my ears I giue to some Sequestered man My skin to make a Iacket on And I bequeath my féet to they That shortly mean to run away when Truth is speake● falshood's dumb Foxes must fly when Lyons come To Fidlers for all trads must live To serve for strings my guts I give For Gamsters that do play at tut And love the sport I give my skut but last of all in this sad dump to Tower-hill I bequeath my Rump Hounds Was ever Hounds so basely crost Our Masters call us off so fast That we the scent have almost lost And they then must rule the rost therefore kind Hare we 'l pardon you Hare Thanks gentle Hounds so adieu And since your Master hath pardon'd me I 'le lead you all to Banbury Where John Turner hath a larger room To entertain all Guests that come to laugh quaff in Wine Béer a full Carouse to your Gallée●e FINIS London Printed for F. Coles T. Ve●e and J. Wright