CHAP* XXI. THE COMPLETE ANGLER. $37 



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 plough-share gives the ground. 



Here are no entrapping bails, 

 To hasten to too hasty fates, 



Unless it be 



The fond credulity 



Of silly fish, which, worldling like, atill 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 gra, 

 Which careless shepherds beat down as they pan ; 



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 



For ever pitch their tents 



Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these moun- 

 tains, 

 And peace, still slumber by these purling fountains: 



Which we may, every year, 



Meet when we come a fishing here ! 



Pise. Trust me, scholar ! I thank you heartily for 

 these verses ; they be choicely good, and doubtless 

 m.idc by a lover of angling. Come, now, drink a 

 glass to me: and 1 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, letthem 

 be writ by whom they will; he that writ them had a brave 



