THAT WHICH IS NOTHING WORTH 



Hail blest estate of lowliness ! 



Happy enjoyments of such minds, 



As rich in self-contentedness, 



Can, like the reeds in roughest winds, 

 By yielding make that blow but small, 

 At which proud oaks and cedars fall. 



There came also into my mind at that time, certain verses 

 in praise of a mean estate and an humble mind ; they were 

 written by Phineas Fletcher, an excellent Divine, and an excel- 

 lent Angler, and the author of excellent ' Piscatory Eclogues,' 

 in which you shall see the picture of this good man's mind, 

 and I wish mine to be like it. 



No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright, 

 No begging wants, his middle fortune bite, 



But sweet content exiles both misery and spite. 

 His certain life, that never can deceive him, 



Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content ; 

 The smooth-leav'd beeches in the field receive him 



With coolest shade, till noon-tide's heat be spent: 

 His life, is neither toss'd in boisterous seas, 

 Or the vexatious world, or lost in slothful ease: 

 Pleas'd and full blest he lives, when he his God can please. 



His bed, more safe than soft, yields quiet sleeps, 



While by his side his faithful spouse hath place ; 

 His little son, into his bosom creeps, 



The lively picture of his father's face ; 

 His humble house, or poor state, ne'er torment him, 

 Less he could like, if less his God had lent him, 

 And when he dies, green turfs do for a tomb content him. 



Gentlemen, these were a part of the thoughts that then 

 possessed me, and I there made a conversion of a piece of an 

 old catch, and added more to it, fitting them to be sung by us 

 Anglers: come, Master, you can sing well, you must sing a 

 part of it as it is in this paper. 



PET. I marry, Sir, this is music indeed, this has cheered 

 my heart, and made me to remember six verses in praise of 

 Music, which I will speak to you instantly. 



Music, miraculous rhetoric! that speak'st sense 

 Without a tongue, excelling eloquence; 

 With what ease might thy errors be excus'd, 

 Wert thou as truly lov'd as thou'rt abus'd? 

 But though dull souls neglect, and some reprove thee, 

 I cannot hate thee, 'cause the Angels love thee. 

 x 137 



