In Praise Of Angling

Quivering fears, heart-tearing cares,

Anxious sighs, untimely tears,

Fly, fly to courts,

Fly to fond worldling's sports,

Where strained sardonic smiles are glossing still,

And grief is forced 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 azured heaven that smiles to see

The rich attendance on our poverty;

Peace and a secure mind,

Which ail 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 blustering care could never tempest make;

Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us,

Saving of fountains that glide by us.

Here's no fantastic mask 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.