84 THE COMPLETE ANGLER 



But Time drives flocks from field to fold, 

 When rivers rage and rocks grow cold ; 

 Then Philomel becometh dumb, 

 And age complains of care to come. 



The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 

 To wayward winter reckoning yields. 

 A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 

 Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 



Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 

 Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, 

 Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten ; 

 In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 



Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, 

 Thy coral clasps and amber studs, 

 All these in me no means can move 

 To come to thee, and be thy love. 



What should we talk of dainties, then, 

 Of better meat than's fit for men ? 

 These are but vain : that's only good 

 Which God hath bless'd, and sent for food. 



But could youth last and love still breed 

 Had joys no date, or age no need 

 Then those delights my mind might move 

 To live with thee, and be thy love. 



MOTHER. Well ! I have done my song. But stay, 

 honest anglers ; for I will make Maudlin to sing you one 

 short song more. Maudlin ! sing that song that you sung 

 last night, when young Condon the shepherd played so 

 purely on his oaten pipe to you and your cousin Betty. 



MAUD. I will, mother. 



I married a wife of late, 



The more's my unhappy fate ; 



I married her for love, 



As my fancy did me move, 

 And not for a worldly estate ; 



