154 



ANGLER'S SONG. 



^Pardon me — humanum est errare." 



Every Man in his Humour. 



Ye lovers of angling, 



And haters of wrangling. 

 Come hither, and list to my lay ; 



I sing of a sport. 



Which the wise will court. 

 Till King Death lay claim to their clay. 



II. 



The rod that I wave. 



Is no pedagogue's slave. 

 The dunce may survey it with smiles ; 



For no horrid pickle. 



To add to its tickle, 

 Its round, polish'd surface defiles. 



