The poem
Lyke as a huntsman after weary chace, Seeing the game from him escapt away: sits downe to rest him in some shady place, with panting hounds beguiled of their pray. So after long pursuit and vaine assay, when I all weary had the chace forsooke, the gentle deare returnd the selfe-same way, thinking to quench her thirst at the next brooke. There she beholding me with mylder looke, sought not to fly, but fearelesse still did bide: till I in hand her yet halfe trembling tooke, and with her owne goodwill hir fyrmely tyde. Strange thing me seemed to see a beast so wyld, so goodly wonne with her owne will beguyld.