356 THE COMPLETE ANGLER. 



Bless'd silent groves, O may you be. 

 For ever, mirth's best nursery ! 



May pure contents 



For ever pitch their tents 



Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains, 

 And peace still slumber by these purling fountains ; 



Which we may every year 



Meet, when we come a-fishing here ! 



PlSC. 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 with me, and I 

 will requite you with another very good copy : it is a fare- 

 well to the vanities of the world, and some say written by 

 Sir Harry Wotton, who I told you was an excellent angler. 

 But let them be writ by whom they will, he that writ them 

 had a brave soul, and must needs be possessed with happy 

 thoughts at the time of their composure. 



Farewell, ye gilded follies, pleasing troubles ! 

 Farewell, ye honour'd rags, ye glorious bubbles ! 

 Fame 's but a hollow echo gold, pure clay- 

 Honour, the darling but of one short day- 

 Beauty, th' eye's idol, but a damask'd skin 

 State, but a golden prison to live in, 

 And torture free-born minds embroider'd trains, 

 Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins 

 And blood allied to greatness is alone 

 Inherited, not purchased, nor our own. 



Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood, and birtl> 



Are but the fading blossoms of the earth. 



I would be great, but that the sun doth still 

 Level his rays against the rising hill 

 I would be high, but see the proudest oak 

 Most subject to the rending thunder-stroke 



