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There is an old tale goes, that Herne the Hunter (Sometime a keeper here in Windsor Forrest) Doth all the winter time, at still midnight Walke roundabout an Oake, with great rag’d-hornes, And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle, And makes milch-kine yeeld blood, and shakes a chaine In a most hideous and dreadfull manner. You haue heard of such a Spirit, and well you know The superstitious idle-headed-Eld Receiu’d, and did deliuer to our age This tale of Herne the Hunter, for a truth.

(The Merry Wives of Windsor, IV, iv)

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