TO MY DEAR FRIEXD. 



MR. I Z . IV A L T N , 



IN PRAISE OF ANGLING, 



WHICH WE BOTH I.OVE. 



Down by this smooth strearrrs wand'ring side, 



Adorn'd and perfum'd with the pride 



Of Flora's wardrobe, where the shrill 



Aerial choir express their skill, 



First in alternate melody. 



And then in chorus all agree. 



Whilst the charm'd fish, as extasy'd 



AVith sounds, to his own throat deny'd. 



Scorns his dull element, and springs 



r th' air, as if his fins were wings. 



'Tis here that pleasures sweet and high 



Prostrate to our embraces lie. 

 Such as to body, soul, or fame, 

 Create no sickness, sin, or shame, 



Roses not fenc'd with pricks grow here. 



No sting to th' honey-bag is near. 



But, what's perhaps their prejudice. 



They difficulty want and price. 

 An obvious rod, a twist of hair, 



With hook hid in an insect, are 



Engines of sport, would fit the wish 



O' th' Epicure and fill his dish. 



In this clear stream let fall a grub. 



And straight take up a Dace or Chub. 



r th' mud your worm provokes a snig. 



Which being fast, if it prove big. 



The Gotham folly will be found 



Discreet, ere ta'en she must be drown'd. 



The Tench, physician of the brook. 



In yon dead hole rxpects your hook, 

 £ 



