xliii 



TO 



MY BOOK 



Go, tell those men that bait their hook with gain, 

 That plow the Hellespont, and cross the main, 

 To fish for gold in ev'ry muddy pit, 

 And hourly wait for ev'ry paltry bit ; 

 That make their shops the fishponds, and the fry, 

 Knacks of all sorts, to catch the standers-by ; 

 That trole with silver hook, but use no rod, 

 And freely strike, perchance the line but nod : 

 That use no other links than such as are 

 Composed of golden threads, not stone-horse-hair : 

 Such mudling anglers, all the baits they lay 

 Tempt nothing more than arguments of clay. 

 Not well considering, all this while they paddle 

 In Craesus wealthy ponds, their eggs prove addle. 

 For when they come to scale their fry, and cook, 

 Ev'ry surprize reach'd them with silver hook ; 

 They must conclude more fin than fish was caught, 

 'Cause ev'ry action proves an empty thought. 

 Come, trace the angler's footsteps, he will lead 

 Thy genius to some grove, or rock : there feed 

 Thy thoughts with contemplation ; whilst most men 

 Think such retirements but a cave, or den : 

 And I'll assure thee when thou com'st to know 

 Those vertucs that from contemplation flow, 

 Thou surely wilt conclude the whole creation 

 Was made for man ; man, but for contemplation. 



PHILANTHROPIC. 



