tence, enjoy it with a meek, cheerful, thankful, heart. I will tell you, Scholar, I have heard a grave Divine say, that God has two dwellings; one in heaven, and the other in a meek and thankful heart which Almighty God grant to me, and to my honest Scholar! And so you are welcome to Tottenham High-Cross.

VEN. Well, Master, I thank you for all your good directions; but for none more than this last of thankfulness, which I hope I shall never forget. And pray now let's rest ourselves in this sweet shady arbour, which nature herself has woven with her own fine fingers; 'tis such a contexture of woodbines, sweetbriar, jessamine, and myrtle, and so interwoven, as will secure us both from the sun's violent heat, and from the approaching shower. And, being sat down, I will requite a part of your courtesies with a bottle of sack, milk, oranges, and sugar, which, all put together, make a drink like nectar; indeed, too good for any body but us Anglers. And so, Master, here is a full glass to you of that liquor; and when you have pledged me, I will repeat the verses which I promised you: it is a copy printed amongst some of Sir Henry Wotton's, and doubtless made either by him, or by a lover of Angling. Come, Master, now drink a glass to me, and then I will pledge you, and fall to my repetition; it is a description of such country recreations as I have enjoyed since I had the happiness to fall into your company.

Quivering fears, heart-tearing cares,

Anxious sighs, untimely tears,

Fly, fly to courts,

Fly to fond worldlings' sports,

Where strain'd Sardonic smiles are glosing still,

And grief is forc'd to laugh against her will :

Where mirth's but mummery,

And sorrows only real be.

Fly, from our country pastimes, fly,

Sad troops of human misery.

Come, serene looks,

Clear as the crystal brooks,

Or the

pure azur'd heaven, that smiles to see

The rich attendance of our poverty:

Peace and a secure mind,

Which all men seek, we only find.

Abused mortals, did you know

Where joy, heart's-ease, and comforts, grow,

You'd scorn proud towers,

And seek them in these bowers;

Where winds, sometimes, our woods perhaps may shake,

But blust'ring care could never tempest make ;

Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us,

Saving of fountains that glide by us.

Here's no fantastic masque, nor dance,
But of our kids that frisk and prance;

Nor wars are seen,
Unless upon the green

Two harmless lambs are butting one the other,

Which done, both bleating run each to his mother:
And wounds are never found,

Save what the ploughshare gives the ground.

Here are no entrapping baits

To hasten too, too hasty fates,

Unless it be

The fond credulity

Of silly fish, which, worldling like, still look
Upon the bait, but never on the hook :
Nor envy, 'less among

The birds, for prize of their sweet song.

Go, let the diving negro seek

For

gems hid in some forlorn creek:

We all pearls scorn,

Save what the dewy morn

Congeals upon each little spire of grass,

Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass :

And gold ne'er here appears,

Save what the yellow Ceres bears.

Blest silent groves! Oh may you be

For ever mirth's best nursery!

May pure contents

For ever pitch their tents

Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these

And

mountains,

peace

still slumber by these purling fountains

S