The Squabble (First Edition) - 7
Stop, stop your bloody Dogs, a Truce I pray,
My Wolves, tho’ harmless, shall be sent away.
See the poor trembling Gang, how pale with fear!
O, back your eager Hounds, nor slay my Sable Care.
THYRSIS.
Haste, then, my tardy Shepherd, and I’ll stay,
Hist!—my stout Hunters—Lion, Tramper, Tray.—
CORIN.
Relentless Thyrsis, I am much inclin’d
To think thy Dogs are of the Blood-hound kind;
Little they’d heed, so they might gain the prey,
Or Wolves or Sheep they joyfully would slay,
And with one full consent destroy ’em all,
And bury Foes and Friends in one promiscuous fall.
But since thy soul on ill perversely bent,
Will have this Flock’s perpetual banishment,
This boon I crave, nor thou refuse it me.
For much I am bewilder’d as you see;
Yon Orb shall thrice its weekly circuit run,
And ‘ere that space espires the work is done.
The word is fix’d: embrace we now in peace,
And from this time let wrangling warfare cease.
Exit Corin.
