216 THE COMPLETE ANGLER* 



Of silly fish, which (worldling like) still look 

 Upon the bait, but never on the hook ; 



Nor envy, 'less among 



The birds, for price of their sweet song. 



Go, let the diving Negro seek 



For gems, hid in some forlorn creek : 



We all pearls scorn, 



Save what the dewy morn 

 Congeals upon each little spire of grass, 

 Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass ; 



And gold ne'er here appears, 



Save what the yellow Ceres bears. 



Bless'd silent groves, oh, 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. 



Piscator. 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 to me, and I will 

 requite you with another very good copy : it is a farewell 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 i 



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 birth, 



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 - 

 I would be rich, but see men, too unkind, 

 Dig in the bowels of the richest mind 



