112 THE COMPLETE ANGLER 



Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, 

 Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, 

 Thy root is ever in its grave 



And thou must die. 



Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, 

 A box where sweets compacted lie ; 

 My music shows you have your closes 

 And all must die. 



Only a sweet and virtuous soul, 

 Like season'd timber, never gives ; 

 But when the whole world turns to coal, 

 Then chiefly lives. 



VEN. I thank you, good master, for your good direction 

 for fly-fishing, and for the sweet enjoyment of the pleasant 

 day, which is so far spent without offence to God or 

 man : and I thank you for the sweet close of your dis- 

 course with Mr. Herbert's verses, who, I have heard, 

 loved angling ; and I do the rather believe it, because 

 he had a spirit suitable to anglers, and to those primitive 

 Christians that you love, and have so much commended. 



Pise. Well, my loving scholar, and I am pleased to 

 know that you are so well pleased with my direction and 

 discourse. 



And since you like these verses of Mr. Herbert's so well, 

 let me tell you what a reverend and learned divine that 

 professes to imitate him (and has indeed done so most 

 excellently), hath writ of our book of Common Prayer ; 

 which I know you will like the better, because he is a 

 friend of mine, and I am sure no enemy to angling. 



What 1 Prayer by the Book ? and Common ? Yes I 

 why not ? 



The spirit of grace 

 And supplication 

 Is not left free alone 



For time and place, 



But manner too : to read, or speak, by rote, 

 Is all alike to him that prays 

 In 's heart, what with his mouth he says. 



