In Praise Of Angling

Here are no entrapping baits

To hasten to 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, O, may you be

Forever mirth's best nursery!

May pure contents

Forever pitch their tents

Upon these downs, these rocks, these mountains,

And peace still slumber by these purling fountains,

Which we may every year

Meet, when we come a-fishing here.