COM1UENDATORY VERSES. 



Which, having first your pastime been, 

 Serves then for meat or medicine. 

 Ambush'd behind that root doth stay 

 A pike ; to catch, and be a prey. 

 The treacherous quill in this slow stream 

 Betrays the hunger of a bream. 

 And at that nimble ford, no doubt, 

 Your false fly cheats a speckled rout. 



When you these creatures wisely choose 

 To practise on, which to your use 

 Owe their creation, and when 

 Fish from your arts do rescue men, 

 To plot, delude, and circumvent, 

 Ensnare, and spoil, is innocent. 

 Here by these crystal streams you may 

 Preserve a conscience clear as they ; 

 And when by sullen thoughts you find 

 Your harassed, not busied, mind 

 In sable melancholy clad, 

 Distemper'd, serious, turning sad ; 

 Hence fetch your cure, cast in your bait, 

 All anxious thoughts and cares will straight 

 Fly with such speed, they '11 seem to be 

 Possess'd with the hydrophobie : 

 The water's calmness in your breast, 

 And smoothness on your brow, shall rest. 



Away with sports of charge and noise, 

 And give me cheap and silent joys ; 

 Such as Actaeon's gam pursue, 

 Their fate oft makes the tale seem true. 

 The sick or sullen hawk, to-day, 

 Flies not ; to-morrow, quite away. 

 Patience and purse to cards and dice 

 Too oft are made a sacrifice : 

 The daughter's dower, th' inheritance 

 O' th' son, depend on one mad chance. 

 The harms and mischiefs which th' abuse 

 Of wine doth every day produce, 

 Make good the doctrine of the Turks, 

 That in each grape a devil lurks. 

 And by yon fading saplps tree, 

 'Bout which the ivy twined you see, 

 His fate 's foretold, who fondly places 

 His bliss in woman's soft embraces : 

 All pleasures, but the angler's, bring 

 I' the tail repentance, like a sting. 



Then on these banks let me sit down, 

 Free from the toilsome sword and gown ; 

 And pity those that do affect 

 To conquer nations and protect. 

 My reed affords such true content, 

 Delights so sweet and innocent, 

 As seldom fall unto the lot 

 Of sceptres, though they 're justly got. 



1349. THO. WEAVER, Master ofArtt. 



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