212 The Complete Angler 



Here are no false entrapping baits, 

 To hasten too, too hasty Fates, 



Unless it be 



The fond credulity 



Of silly fish, which worldling like, still look 

 Upon the bait, but never on the hook; 



Nor envy, unless among 



The birds, for prize of their sweet song. 



Go, let the diving negro seek 



For gems, hid in some forlorn creek : 



We all pearls scorn, 



Save what the dewy morn 

 Congeals upon each little spire of grass, 

 Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass : 



And gold ne'er here appears, 



Save what the yellow Ceres bears. 



Blest silent groves, oh may ye be, 

 For ever, mirth's best nursery ! 



May pure contents 



For ever pitch their tents 



Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains, 

 And peace still slumber by these purling fountains : 



Which we may, every year, 



Meet when we come a-fishing here. 



PlSCATOR. Trust me, Scholar, I thank you heart- 

 ily for these Verses: they be choicely good, and 

 doubtless made by a lover of angling. Come, now, 

 drink a glass to me, and I will requite you with 

 another very good copy: it is a farewell to the 

 vanities of the world, and some say written by Sir 

 Harry Wotton, who I told you was an excellent 

 angler. But let them be writ by whom they will, 

 he that writ them had a brave soul, and must needs 

 be possest with happy thoughts at the time of their 

 composure. 



Farewell, ye gilded follies, pleasing troubles ; 

 Farewell, ye honour'd rags, ye glorious bubbles ; 

 Fame's but a hollow echo ; Gold, pure clay ; 

 Honour the darling but of one short day ; 

 Beauty, th' eye's idol, but a damask'd skin ; 

 State, but a golden prison, to live in 

 And torture free-born minds ; embroider'd Trains, 

 Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins ; 



