Epigram 32: The huntsman o’er the hills pursues

The huntsman o’er the hills pursues
The timid hare, and keenly views
The tracks of hinds amid the snow,
Nor heeds the wint’ry winds that blow.
But should a stranger mildly say,
Accept the game I kill’d to-day,—
The proffer’d gift he quickly scorns,
And to th’ uncertain chace returns:
Such is my love; I never prize
An easy fair, but her who flies.