Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind, But as for me, helas, I may no more: The vain travail hath wearied me so sore, I am of them that farthest come behind. Yet may I, by no means, my wearied mind Draw from the deer; but as she fleeth afore, Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore, Since in a net I seek to hold the wind. Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt, As well as I, may his time in vain. And, graven with diamonds in letters plain There is written, her fair neck round about, "Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am, And wild for to hold, though I seem tame."

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