THE COMPLETE ANGLER. <$ 



The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 

 To wayward winter reckoning yields. 

 A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 

 Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 



Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 

 Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, 

 Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten ; 

 In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 



Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, 

 Thy coral clasps and amber studs, 

 All these in me no means can move 

 To come to thee and be thy love. 



What should we talk of dainties, then, 

 Of better meat than's fit for men ? 

 These are but vain ; that's only good 

 Which God hath bless'd, and sent for food. 



But could youth last and love still breed 

 Had joys no date, or age no need 

 Then those delights my mind might move 

 To live with thee, and be thy love. 



MOTHER. Well ! I have done my song. But stay, honest 

 anglers ; for I will make Maudlin to sing you one short song 

 more. Maudlin ! sing that song that you sung last night, 

 when young Coridon the shepherd played so purely on his 

 oaten pipe to you and your cousin Betty. 



MAUD. I will, mother. 



I married a wife of late, 



The niore's my unhappy fate ; 



I married her for love, 



As my fancy did me move, 

 And not for a worldly estate ; 



But, Oh ! the green sickness 

 Soon changed her likeness, 

 And all her beauty did fail. 

 But 'tis not so 

 With those that go 

 Through frost and snow, 

 As all men know, 

 And carry the mil king-pail. 



Pise. Well sung, good woman ; I thank you. I'll give you 

 another dish of fish one of these days, and then beg another 

 song of you. Come, scholar, let Maudlin alone ; do not you 

 offer to spoil her voice. Look, yonder comes mine hostess, 

 to call us to supper. How now ? Is my brother Pefcer come ? 



HOST. Yes, and a friend with him ; they are both glad to 

 hear that you are in these parts, and long to see you, and 

 long to be at supper, for they be very hungry. 



