CHAPTER IV. 



(i But Ihould you lure 



From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots 

 Of pendant trees, the monarch of the brook, 

 Behoves you then to ply your fineft art j 

 Long time he following cautious, fcans the fly, 

 And oft attempts to feize it, but as oft 

 The dimpled water fpeaks his jealous fear. 

 At laft, while haply o'er the (haded fun 

 Pafles a cloud, he defperate takes the death, 

 With fullen plunge." 



THOMSON. 



HE fifhing I enjoyed in my two 

 years' fojourn near the Wye, was 

 continually diverfified with inci- 

 dents that anglers love to prate 

 about, and laugh over long, long 

 after they have pafled away. 



How well do I remember, as if it had happened 

 only yefterday, a piece of moft amufmg clever- 

 nefs (I will not call it craftinefs), that was enacted 

 by my then boyifh friend Pifcator (for we had be- 

 come great cronies). 



