THE COMPLETE ANGLER. 283 



" Here 's no fantastic masque, nor dance, 

 But of our kids that frisk and prance; 



Nor wars are seen, 



Unless upon the green 



Two harmless lambs are butting one the other, 

 Which done, both bleating run each to his mother : 



And wounds are never found, 



Save what the ploughshare gives the ground. 



" Here are no 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, 'less 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 you be 

 Forever mirth's best nursery ! 

 May pure contents 

 Forever 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 " 



