THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 177 



Pox on't, 'tis a ground-bite, my line is lost, 

 Was everman with such ill fortune crost : 

 A murrain take those weeds that lurking lye, 

 The curling surface hid them from my eye. 

 Chear up ; this bodes no good, I must confess, 

 Tho' I've more tackle to supply its place. 

 But I'll remove from hence to yonder nook, 

 And not split twice upon one fatal rock. 



So, let me see ; Ay, this I think will do, 

 Here's a fine shade, and a deep water too. 

 This is a likely place as heart can wish, 

 The devil's in't if here I catch no fish. 

 There I lie well, if fortune be but kind, 

 I'll shew her sport, altho' the gypsy's blind. 

 When in one post we've disappointments found, 

 'Tis wisdom for a man to change his ground. 



How finely does this shady willow spread, 

 And from the scorching sun defend my head ? 

 Sure 'tis some Daphne chang'd into a tree, 

 To save her beauty from pollution free ; 

 And that she might, by being turn'd to wood, 

 Escape the fury of some lustful god. 

 O that I had my Mariana here, 

 With what delight could I embrace my dear : 

 Who could a more obscure retirement find ? 

 The place by Nature seems for love design' d. 

 No envious eyes could interrupt our joys, 

 What am'rous pair could make a safer choice ? 



None but the gods, and silent fish could see, 

 What pasa'd betwixt the blushing Nymph and me. 



