Leveret

The leveret runs in the steppe.

A tiny leveret was the meagre yield of the exhausting hunt.

[…] Shall I die like a leveret, Without any resistance?—Help, help, help! I am slain!

Fair Hand that can on Virgin-paper write, Yet from the stain of Ink preserve it white, Whose travel o’er that Silver Field does show, Like track of Leveretts in morning Snow;

As when two skilful hounds the leveret wind; Or chase through woods obscure the trembling hind; Now lost, now seen, they intercept his way, And from the herd still turn the flying prey: So fast, and with such fears, the Trojan flew; So close, so constant, the bold Greeks pursue.

They heard Marvel squeal like a caught leveret, and forthwith they were clambering over the bar to his rescue.