208 THE COMPLETE ANGLER. [PART i. 



secure us both from the sun's violent heat, and from the approach- 

 ing shower. And being set down, I will requite a part of your 

 courtesies with a bottle of sack, milk, oranges, and sugar, which, 

 all put together, make a drink like nectar ; indeed, too good for 

 any but us Anglers. And so, Master, here is a full glass to you 

 of that liquor : and when you have pledged me, I will repeat the 

 Verses which I promised you : it is a Copy printed among some 

 of Sir Henry Wotton's,* and doubtless made either by him, or 

 by a lover of angling. Come, Master, now drink a glass to me, 

 and then I will pledge you, ancl fall to my repetition ; it is a 

 description of such country recreations as I have enjoyed since I 

 had the happiness to fall into your company. 



Quivering fears, heart-tearing cares, Which done, both bleating run, each to his 



Anxious sighs, untimely tears, mother; 



Fly, fly to courts. And wounds are never found, 



Fly to fond worldlings' sports, Save what the ploughshare gives the 



Where strain'd sardonic smiles are glosing ground. 



still, 



And Grief is forc'd to laugh against her will : Here are no false entrapping baits, 



Where mirth's but mummery, To hasten too, too hasty Fates, 



And sorrows only real be. Unless it be 



_. . . a The fond credulity 



Fly from our country pastimes, fly, Of sill fishj which> wor ldling-like, still look 



Sad troops of human misery. y the bait but never on the hook 



Come, serene looks, Nor envy) unless amon? 



Clear as the crystal brooks, The bird for ize of their sweet s 

 Or the pure azur d heaven that smiles to see 



The rich attendance of our poverty : Go, let the diving negro seek 



Peace and a secure mind, For gems, hid in some forlorn creek : 



Which all men seek, we only find. We all pearls scorn, 



Abused mortals ! did you know Save what the dewy morn 



Where joy, heart's-ease, and comforts grow, Congeals upon each little spire of grass, 



You'd scorn proud towers, Which careless shepherds beat down a 



And seek them in these bowers ; . t} ] e y pass ^ 



Where winds, sometimes, our woods perhaps And S' d ne r he , re appears 



may shake Save what the yellow Ceres bears. 



Here's no fantastic mask, nor dance, For ever pitch their tents 



But of our kids that frisk and prance ; Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, 



Nor wars are seen these mountains, 



Unless upon the green And peace still slumber by these purling 



Two harmless lambs are butting one the Which we may, every year, [fountains : 

 other, Meet when we come a-fishing here. 



PlSCATOR. Trust me, Scholar, I thank you heartily 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, 2 who I 



VARIATION. 



2 and I will requite you with a very good copy of verses : it is a farewell to the 

 vanities of the world, and some say written by Dr D. ist and -zd edit. 



* See Reliquice Wottoniance, 8vo, 1685, page 390. 



