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 let's now 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 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 blustering 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. Of silly fish, which, worldling like, still look Upon the bait, but never on the hook: Nor envy, 'less among The birds for price 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 mountains, And Peace still slumber by these purling fountains: LL Which, we may every year Meet when we come a-fishing here. Pisc. Trust me, Scholar, I thank you heartily for these verses, they be choicely good, and doubtless made by a lover of Angling: Come, now, drink a glass to me, and I will requite you with another very good copy: it is a Farewell to the Vanities of the World, and some say, written by Sir Harry Wotton, who I told you was an excellent Angler. But let them be writ by whom they will, he that writ them had a brave soul, and must needs be possessed with happy thoughts at the time of their composure. Farewell ye gilded follies, pleasing troubles; And torture free-born minds :-Embroider'd trains Inherited, not purchas'd, nor our own. Fame, Honour, Beauty, State, Train, Blood, and Are but the fading blossoms of the earth. I would be Great, but that the Sun doth still |