THE POETR T OF PL 7 FISHING. 235 



The various colors of the treach'rous fly ; 

 When he with fruitless pain hath skim'd the brook, 

 And the coy fish rejects the skipping hook. 

 He shakes the boughs that on the margin grow, 

 Which o'er the stream a weaving forest throw ; 

 When if an insect fall (his certain guide) 

 He gently takes him from the whirling tide ; 

 Examines well his form with curious eyes, 

 His gaudy vest, his wings, his horns, his size. 

 Then round his hook the chosen fur he winds, 

 And on the back a speckled feather binds ; 

 So just the colors shine through every part, 

 That nature seems to live again in art." 



