On stream now, or still, 



A large pannier we'll fill, 

 Trout and Grayling to rise are so willing? 



I dare venture to say, 



'Twill be a bloody day, 

 And we all shall be weary of killing. 



Away, then, away, 



Wo lose sport by delay; 

 But first leave our sorrow behind us: 



If Miss Fortune should come, 



We are all gone from home, 

 And a-fishing she never can find us. 



The Angler is free 



From the cares that degree 

 Finds itself with, so often, tormented ; 



And although we should slay 



Each a hundred a-day, 

 'Tis a slaughter needs ne'er be repented. 



And although we display 

 All our arts to betray 



What were made for man's pleasure and diet, 

 Yet both princes and states 

 May for all our quaint baits, 



May for all our quanu oaiis, 

 Rule themselves and their people in quiet 



We scratch not our pates, 

 Nor repine at the rates 



Our superiors impose on our living; 

 But do frankly submit, 

 Knowing they have more wit, 



In demanding than we have in giving. 



While quiet we sit, 



We conclude all things fit, 



Acquiescing with hearty submission 

 For, though simple, we know 

 That soft murmurs will grow 



At the last, unto downright sedition. 



