"My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind
So flew'd, so sanded; and their heads are hung
With ears that sweep away in the morning drew;
Crook-knee and drew-lapp'd like Thessalian bulls
Slow in pursuit, but match'd in mouth like bells,
Each under each. A cry more tuneable
Was never holla'd to, nor cheer'd with horn."
Retrato fiel de nuestra nueva amiga.
Siga bien estimadísimo amigo Cambá Caté