...
 Such speech they chang'd; when in the yard there lay
 A dog, call'd Argus, which, before his way
 Assum'd for Ilion, Ulysses bred,
 Yet stood his pleasure then in little stead,
 As being too young; but, growing to his grace,
 Young men made choice of him for every chace,
 Or of their wild goats, of their hares, or harts.
 But his king gone, and he, now past his parts,
 Lay all abjectly on the stable's store,
 Before the oxstall, and mules'stable door,
 To keep the clothes cast from the peasants'hands,
 While they laid compass on Ulysses'lands;
 The dog, with ticks (unlook'd-to) over-grown.
 But by this dog no sooner seen but known
 Was wise Ulysses, who new enter'd there,
 Up went his dog's laid ears, and, coming near,
 Up he himself rose, fawn'd, and wagg'd his stern,
 Couch'd close his ears, and lay so; nor discern
 Could evermore his dear-lov'd lord again.
 Ulysses saw it, nor had power t'abstain
 From shedding tears; which (far-off seeing his swain)
 He dried from his sight clean; to whom he thus
 His grief dissembled: "'Tis miraculous,
 That such a dog as this should have his lair
 On such a dunghill, for his form is fair.
 And yet, I know not, if there were in him
 Good pace, or parts, for all his goodly limb;
 Or he liv'd empty of those inward things,
 As are those trencher-beagles tending kings,
 Whom for their pleasure's, or their glory's sake,
 Or fashion, they into their favour take."

 "This dog," said he, "was servant to one dead
 A huge time since. But if he bore his head,
 For form and quality, of such a height,
 As when Ulysses, bound for th'Ilion fight,
 Or quickly after, left him, your rapt eyes
 Would then admire to see him use his thighs
 In strength and swiftness. He would nothing fly,
 Nor anything let scape; if once his eye
 Seiz'd any wild beast, he knew straight his scent;
 Go where he would, away with him he went.
 Nor was there ever any savage stood
 Amongst the thickets of the deepest wood
 Long time before him, but he pull'd him down;
 As well by that true hunting to be shown
 In such vast coverts, as for speed of pace
 In any open lawn. For in deep chace
 He was a passing wise and well-nos'd hound.
 And yet is all this good in him uncrown'd
 With any grace here now; nor he more fed
 Than any errant cur. His king is dead,
 Far from his country; and his servants are
 So negligent they lend his hound no care.
 Where masters rule not, but let men alone,
 You never there see honest service done.
 That man's half virtue Jove takes quite away,
 That once is sun-burn'd with the servile day."
 This said, he enter'd the well-builded towers,
 Up bearing right upon the glorious wooers,
 And left poor Argus dead; his lord's first sight
 Since that time twenty years bereft his light.
...