COMMENDATORY VERSES. 

 TO 



MY DEAR FRIEND, MR. IZ. WALTON, 



In praise of Angling, which we both love. 



DOWN by this smooth stream's wand'ring side, 



Adorn'd and perfiim'd with the pride 



Of Flora's wardrobe, where the shrill 



Aerial choir express their skill, 



First, in alternate melody, 



And, then, in chorus all agree. 



Whilst the charm 'd fish, as extasyM 



With sounds, to his own throat deny M, 



Scorns his dull element, and springs 



I' 1h' air, as if his fins were wings. 



^Tis here that pleasures sweet and high 

 Prostrate to our embraces lie : 

 Such as to body, soul, or fame, 

 Create no sickness, sin, or shame : 

 Roses, not fenc'd with pricks, grow here ; 

 Vt sting to th* honey-bag is near : 

 But, what's perhaps their prejudice, 

 They difficulty want and price. 



An obvious rod, a twist of hair, 

 With hook hid in an insect, are 

 Engines of sport would fit the wish 

 O' ill' Epicure, and fill his dish. 



In this clear stream, let fall a grub ; 

 And, strait, take up a Dace or Chub. 

 F uY mud, your worm provokes a snig, 

 Which being fast, if it prove big, 

 The Gotham folly will be found 

 Discreet, ere ta'en she must be drown'd. 

 The Tench, physician of the brook, 

 In yon dead hole expects your hook ; 

 Which having first your pastime been, 

 Serves then for meat or medicine. 



