TO MY DEAR FRIEND,

MR. IZ. WALTON, IN PRAISE OF ANGLING,

WHICH WE BOTH LOVE.

:

Down by this smooth stream's wandering side, a
Adorn'd and perfumed with the pride
Of Flora's wardrobe, where the shrill
Aërial choir express their skill,
First, in alternate melody,
And, then, in chorus all agree.
Whilstd the charm’d fish, as ecstasied
With sounds, to his own throat denied,
Scorns his dull element, and springs
I' the 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;
No sting to the 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 sporth, would fiti the wish
Of th’ Epicure, andk fill his dish.

In this clear stream let fall a grub;
And, straight, take up a Dace or Chub.

VARIATIONS.

* Down by this wand'ring stream's smooth side.—2nd Edit.
b Choir of the air.-Ibid. charmony.-Ibid.
name.-Ibid.

And.-Ibid. h Emblems of skill.-Ibid. i feed.-Ibid.

e

d Where.-Ibid.
& some.- Ibid.
k or.-Ibid.

D

1

l' the 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 medicineo.
Ambush'd behind that root doth stay
A Pike, to catch, and be a prey.
The treacherous quill in this slow stream P
Betrays the hunger of a Bream.P
And at that nimble ford, no doubt,
Your false fly cheats a speckled Trout.

When you these creatures wisely choose
To practise on, which to your use
Owe their creation, and when
Fish from your arts do rescue men,
To plot, delude, and circumvent,
Ensnare, and spoil, are innocent.
Here by these crystal streams you may
Preserve a conscience clear as they ;

a

And when by sullen thoughts you find
Your harassed, not busied, mind
In sable melancholy clad,
Distemper'd, serious, turning sad;
Hence fetch your cure, cast in your bait,
All anxious thoughts and cares will straight
Fly with such speed, they'llu seem to be
Possest with the hydrophoby.
The water's calmness in your breast,

' And smoothness on your brow, shall rest.

Away with sports of charge and noise,
And give me cheap and silent joys, y
Such as Actæon's game pursue,
Their fate oft makes the tale? seem truc.
The sick or sullen hawk, to-day,
Flies not; to-morrow, quite away.
Patience and purse to cards and dice
Too oft are made a sacrifice :
The daughter's dower, th' inheritance
O'th' son, depend on one mad chance.
The harms and mischiefs which th' abuse a
Of wine doth every day produce,
Make good the doctrine of the Turks,
That in each grape a devil lurks.
And by yon fading sapless tree,
'Bout which the ivy twin'd you see,
His fate's foretold, whoc fondly places
His bliss in woman's soft embraces.
All pleasures, but the Angler's, bring
I'the tail repentance, like a sting.

Then on these banksd let me site down,
Free from the toilsome sword and gown;
And pity those that dof affect
To conquer nations and protect.

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a

My reed affords such trues content,
Delights so sweet and" innocent,
As seldom fall untoi the lot

Of sceptres, though they're justly got. 1649.

Tuo. WEAVER, M'. of Arts.3

He that both knew and writ the Lives of men,

Such as were once, but must not be again;
Witness his matchless Donne and Wotton, by

Whose aid he could their speculations try :
He that conversed with angels, such as were

Ouldsworth1 and Featly, · each a shining star
Showing the way to Bethlem ; each a saint,

Compared to whom our zealots, now, but paint.
He that our pious and learn'd Morley3 knew,

And from him suck'd wit and devotion too.
He that from these such excellencies fetch'd,

That he could tell how high and far they reach'd;
What learning this, what graces th' other had;
And in what several dress each soul was clad.

Reader, this He, this Fisherman, comes forth,
And in these Fisher's weeds would shroud his worth.
Now his mute harp is on a willow hung,
With which, when finely touch'd, and fitly strung,
He could friends' passions for these times allay,
Or chain his fellow Anglers from their prey.
But now the musick of his pen is still,
And he sits by a brook watching a quill :
Where with a fixt eye, and a ready hand,
He studies first to hook, and then to land

a