THE Art of ANGLING.  
A POEM.   

THE Innocent Epicure: OR, THE Art of ANGLING. A POEM.  
Tityrus amas Rivos, Rivos tibi, Tityrus, dicam.  Rap. 
— Si quid novisti Rectius Istis,  
Candidus imperti, si non, His utere mecum.  Hor. 
LONDON: Printed for S. Crouch, H. Playford, and W. Brown: Against the Royal-Exchange, Cornhill; in the Temple-Exchange, Fleetstreet; and in Black-Horse Alley near Fleet-Bridge. 1697.   

PREFACE.  
THE Copy of this Poem being sent to me from the Unknown Author, with Commission to Publish or Suppress it, as I thought fitting; his Indifference about the matter convinced me that he was a Gentleman who wrote it for his Diversion, or at least in Kindness to Those who are Lovers of that Ingenious and Innocent Recreation, concerning which he has made so judicious Observations. I immediately communicated the sight of his Manuscript to s●●eral Experienced Anglers, (and some of 'em no Enemies to the Muses,) who agreed in their Opinions, That notwithstanding the Confinement th●t Verse lays upon a Writer, it far excels any thing that has been published in Prose upon this Subject, even in the Useful and Instructive Part of the Work. They assured me, That it contains all the necessary Rules that have yet been delivered; and those Rules digested into a much better Method; together with several Uncommon and Surprising Remarks, which many who are reputed Artists at the Sport, may receive Advantage by.  
This was All that seemed needful to be said of the Performance, with relation to the Angler's business; and in reference to the Poetry, 'tis certain that every man will judge for himself: And doubtless the modestest Account that I can give of it, will be most acceptable to an Author who conceals his Name.  
The Cast and Design of the Work are after the Model of Ancient and best received Poets on such Arguments: The Style lively, and as elevated as was proper for the Matter of which he treats, and discovers a Genius capable of managing a greater Subject: The Numbers are smooth and easy; and if there is not always a ●ervi●e Strictness of Rhyme, that seems to me a judicious Negligence (in ● Pi●●● where Nature 〈◊〉 to have the Ascendant), and becoming a Gentleman who wrote for his Pleasure, and makes not Poetry his Profession.  
His Digressions, as they were necessary to relieve the Dryness of prescribing Directions, so are they Sensible and Entertaining.  
I have only this to add, That since the Author's Scene lies in the Country, in the Solitude of Rivers and Meadows, I presume there needs no Apology for Publishing herewith so good a Copy of that Original Landscape of Retirement, which was long since so admirably drawn by Horace. Nor can any Contemplative Person be offended at my publishing of Both, since they were Both committed to my Disposal.  
N. TATE.   

From J. S. to C. S.  HORACE Epist. X. Lib. I. 
Vrbis Amatorem Fuscum Salvere ju●emus  
Ruris amatores, etc.  

HEalth to my Friend, who loves the Town so well;  
Health from his Friend, who loves his Country Cell;  
In all but this, we twin like Brother Doves,  
What one dislikes, the other disapproves;  
And Covents Garden Cooing but divides our Loves.  
Thou keep'st the Billing Nest; I range the Fields,  
And taste what uncorrupted Nature yields;  
Riot in Flowers, and wanton in the Woods,  
Bask on the Mossy Banks, and skim along the Floods.  
In short, I Live, and Reign, and Joy to be,  
From all thy much-mistaken Blessings free;  
And, as the Slave the Flamens surfeits fled,  
Nauseate the Honey-Cakes, and feast on Bread;  
If happiness of Life be worth our care,  
(And he who Builds, should nicely choose his Air);  
Tell me the Place that with the Country vies,  
In easy Blessings, and in Native Joys;  
Where cheerful Hearths deceive the Cold so well,  
Or gentle Gales the raging Beams repel;  
When both the Lion and the Dog conspire,  
With furious Rays to set the day on fire;  
Where then, ah where! but here, can Sleep maintain  
(That slave in Courts) her soft Imperial Reign?  
Is Parian Marble pressed beneath thy feet,  
More beautiful than Flowers, or half so sweet?  
Or Water roaring through the bursting Led,  
So pure as gliding in its easy Bed?  
Who Builds in Cities, yet the Fields approves,  
And hedges in with Pillars awkward Groves●  
Strives for the Countrey-View that farthest runs,  
And tweers aloof at Beauties which he shuns.  
In driving Nature out, our force is vain,  
Still the recoiling Goddess comes again;  
And creeps in silent Triumph to deride  
The weak attempts of Luxury and Pride.  
An ignorant and uncomparing Fop,  
Is cheated less in any Mercer's Shop,  
Than he who cannot with a wary Eye  
Distinguish Happiness from Vanity.  
Who prosperous Chance too eagerly embrace,  
Feel double Pangs in her averted face.  
You once must leave whatever you admire;  
Ah wisely now, and willingly retire;  
Forsake the gaudy Tinsel of the Great,  
The Peaceful Cottage beckons a Retreat:  
Where tr●● Content so tru● a Greatness brings,  
As slights th●ir ●a●ourites, and pities Kings.   

The Stag and ●ors● in common Pasture fed,  
Till j●rs en●u'd, and Heels opposed to Head;  
But Horns are lucky things● and P●lsrey fled,  
Foaming for spite (and Passion is a Wit,)  
He sought to Man, and kindly took the Bit:  
But when he fully had revenged his Cause,  
The Spurs still gauled his Sides, the Curb his Jaws.  
Just so the Man who has his Freedom sold,  
(The nobler Riches) to insulting Gold,  
His Back beneath a jaunting Rider lays,  
Hackneyed and Spurred through all his slavish days.  
Whose Fortune is not fitted to his will,  
Too Great or Little, is uneasy still.  
Our Shoes and Fortune surely are allied,  
We limp in straight, and stumble in the Wide.  
Wisely now take what Chance and Fate afford,  
Nor wish for more; I know thou wilt not Hoard:  
And when I labour for the sordid Gains,  
Or heap the Trash, upbraid me for my Pains.  
It Serves or Rules, where ever Gold you find;  
But still the Varlet is a Slave by Kind.  
Receive these from thy Friend—  
Who laughs in Kent from Cares and Business free,  
And wanting nothing in the World but Thee.    

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ALL Sorts of Fishing-Rods, Tackle, and other Implements of Angling, sold by William Brown, in Black-Horse Alley, near Fleet-bridge, and at his House, the Sign of the Golden Fish in St. Paul ●s Churchyard.   

THE Art of Angling.  

HEnce Idle Love; the Muse at last grown wise,  
Dilates her Fancy, and improves her Choice.  
To vain delights she's now no●more a Friend.  
But ye, ye genial Souls do you attend;  
Attend and listen, while I freely tell  
You and the wiser World the Art of Angling well.  
Others their Pleasure by their Hopes commend;  
But I the Anglers value by its End.  
Ye Nymphs and River-Gods (if such there be)  
Of you I sing; exert your Force to me.  
While I describe the Glories of your Court,  
Natives, their Manners, and their vast Resort,  
My humble Reed with such a Strain inspire,  
As those the listening Streams in you admire;  
When the glad Waves from their swift Course recoil,  
And in your Songs forget their hourly Toil.  
So may they still attend you as you sing;  
So may the Meads, of Sport your wanton Scene,  
Be blest by jove with everlasting Spring.  
And thou, whom once to hear, is once to love,  
Alike propitious to my Labours prove.  
Smile on your own Commands, tho' ill obeyed,  
And kindly execute the Muse's Aid.  
Beneath thy least neglect the Work must fall,  
So vast its Height, my Genius so small;  
But from your Smiles she will not fear to hope:  
Atlas, they say, bore the World's Fabric up.  
At worst the just will emulate my Fate;  
Sternhold might shine exalted to the height,  
And B— and L— Poll for Laureate.   

Begin, my Muse, the Pleasures of the Wise,  
Serene Content, and unrepented Ease;  
Thy Noble Song who can neglect to hear?  
None but the Fools thou shouldst not love nor fear.  
They scorning thee, thy Reputation raise,  
And with their Cypress bring Eternal Bays.   

First then, the best Materials to prepare,  
(The curious Anglers chief and wisest Care)  
Sing we, in Numbers rather just than new,  
And Short; for the Ingenious want but Few.  
Hints are enough, where we the Subject love;  
And the Lukewarm won't more than Hints improve.   

Tired with the Glories he so long has born,  
When Sol resigns them all in Capricorn,  
Or when the Northern Pleyades are set,  
And Rural Hinds seek out the welcome Heat;  
Awhile th' approaching Winter-blasts sustain:  
The future Bliss will quit the present Pain.  
Then tender Shoots from the old Hazle take;  
Straight, smooth, and even, free from Knot or Break.  
Search all the Copse, nor spare the fairest Tree:  
No matter though the tender Mother's cry.  
No matter though the Nymphs, her Sisters, mourn:  
From the fresh Wound fresh Offspring will return.  
Besides, 'tis kind her Issue to impair;  
Old as she is, her Stock should lightly bear.  
We bless the Shepherds, and we call them wise,  
Who treble-bearing Ewes discreetly ease:  
As wisely than you may your Use supply;  
Furnish yourself, and ease the labouring Tree.  
Thus got, preserve them with your utmost Care;  
For Nicety itself's a Virtue here.  
Prune them, if notched; if crooked, make them strait:  
The Knife does this, a gentle Flame does thate  
The Sap expelled, they dexterously bend,  
And double service and assistance lend.  
Then lest they warp, and from the curling Snake,  
Their quondam Tenant, some resemblance take;  
Let some strait Pole their fettered Bodies bear;  
Nor lose them till occasion first require.  
Nor when you fit them for your Sport and Use,  
'Slight you the Art, or any pains refuse.  
Here nice Proportion must be well observed;  
And exact Beauty through the whole preserved:  
For though rude Slaves with bungling Labour kill;  
True Anglers ought to do't distinguishingly well.  
But if these Pains, like dangerous Tasks in Love,  
Stifle your thoughts, and your fledged hopes remove:  
A little Charge will purchase you your Ease,  
And London furnish you with just Supplies.  
There labouring Artists nicely fit each part:  
You buy your Pleasure, and they live by Art.  
The Cane, the Hazle, all the Anglers Store  
They sell, and often, to the Curious, more.  
But, if I might entrench upon your Ease,  
I'd with a Caution join my poor Advice.  
First, of their Lines, their treacherous Lines beware;  
Nor grudge yourself a little Labour here.  
I teach you here, by sad Experience taught,  
What I with Care and Money dearly bought.  
Full oft relying on my Strength, not Skill;  
Full oft the Fisher was the Fish's spoil.  
Nor only were my Hopes and Pleasures crossed,  
But, with my Prize, more precious Time was lost.  
Then warning take, and wisely thus avoid  
The Rock on which my Ship has oft been tried.  
Choose well your Hair, and know the vigorous Horse  
Not only reigns in Beauty, but in Force.  
Creatures decayed the London Shops supply:  
Get you such Locks as they can't reach to buy.  
Nor choose the Hair of Beasts (though newly) dead;  
There Nature's universally decayed.  
But, when the Rampant Brute with Vigour flies  
To force the timorous Jade to taste his Joys,  
Obtain your wish at any Rate and Price.  
Then for your single Links the fairest choose;  
Such single Hair will best supply your use.  
And of the rest your several Lines prepare,  
In all still lessening every Link a Hair.  
If for the Fly, taper and long your Line;  
The Fish is quick, and hates what is not fine.  
If for the Depth, to stronger I advise;  
Tho still the finest take the finest Prize.  
But e'er you twist your upper Links, take care  
Wisely to match in Length and Strength your Hair.  
Believe me, Friend, this Care as useful is,  
And just, as any part of my Advice.  
Have you not seen the skilful Archer's Bow  
Drawn to a height, his Expectation so;  
The Arrow pointing to the wished-for Prize,  
And he devouring 't with his Heart and Eyes;  
When the ill-twisted String his Vigour fails,  
First frets, then snaps, the baffled Master rails.  
Such oft has been my Fate, which only Care  
And future Circumspection could repair.  
On equal Strength we wisely may rely;  
But else Experience by our loss we buy.  
For even in Friendships Bonds 'tis rarely found,  
That when one fails, the other keeps his ground.  
Then wisely to avoid the Archer's Fate,  
Twist slow your Links, and see they justly plait.  
Hair best with Hair, and Silk with Silk agrees;  
But mixed, have each their Inconveniences.  
Though would you freely to my Rules attend,  
I'd only to your use the Hair commend.  
More trivial things are these; the Knot and 
* Is a Word peculiar to the Angler, and signifies no more than the wrapping of two Links together, which evens the Line, and keeps it more taper than the knot will allow it to be.  Bought,  
Not worth a Verse since easily learned without.  
For every Angler here by Instinct knows  
The use of This, and that That must be close.  
Of like consideration are the Rest;  
Hook, Float and Plummet, as you fancy best.  
For one, perhaps, applauds his Kerby's Ware;  
And others cheaplier served exceed him every where.  
For as in Beauty Fancy reigns; we see  
Fancy misleads us in Utility.  
Some teach you next the blunted Hook to whet;  
Though I was never so unfurnished yet;  
Nor did my Leisure e'er so much oppress,  
To lose an Hour in niggard Idleness.  
Nor is there farther●worthy to be Taught,  
Bags, Landing Nets, and Panniers must be Bought.  
When, though unasked, th' event will easily show  
Your willing Chap will over-furnish you.   

Next of the Art itself I speak; O Friend!  
My weighty Lessons heedfully attend!  
Attend me, while I into order bring  
Each weighty Rule, and every ponderous Line.  
Hail! great Triumvirate 
* Walton, Cotton, Venables.  of Angling! Hail!  
Ye who best taught, and here did best Excel.  
Play here the Gods, play here the Hero's part:  
Yourselves the Proto-Poets of the Art.  
My humble Breast with powerful Flames Inspire  
To teach the World what justly we admire:  
Joys fraught with Innocence, of Danger free,  
Raptures which none but we should so enjoy.  
But tell me first, for you or none can tell,  
What God the mighty Science did reveal?  
For sure a God he was; less than Divine,  
How could such weighty Blessings flow from him?  
A God he was then, or at least to me,  
And, my Associates, such he ought to be.  
He taught us First the Grandeur of the Court  
Contemned and scorned for this, to choose a Sport  
Full of Content, and crowned with Healthful Ease:  
Where Nature Frets not while ourselves we Please.   

Come back my Muse now to the Task designed;  
Sing we of Fish the Haunts of every Kind,  
Their Baits, their Seasons, and their usual Feed,  
And when the Angler best may hope to speed.  
Things worthy of the Angler's greatest Care;  
Things worthy Thee to Teach, and Him to Hear.   

And First the Salmon does my Verse command,  
Loved at his Sport, but more at Tables famed.  
Well are the Patient Anglers Pains repaid,  
When this fair Captain is his Captive made.  
Oft purling Brooks, but oftener greater Streams  
He Haunts:  
Where Neptune, like the Dutch in India Reigns:  
Just Salts the Water to Evince his Power,  
Afraid to vex the River-Beauties more.  
At Midday when the Sun exerts his Rays,  
See on the Surface how the Wanton Plays.  
Then wisely tempt him, and from Force or Choice  
You'll see him nimbly to your Pastime Rise.  
Strong be your Lines, your Hooks, your Rods, and all,  
And wise your Conduct, or he breaks the whole.  
One wary Jerk, and strait he plunging cries,  
Angler be cautious● or you lose your Prize.  
Though mealy mouthed, he's sometimes that way lost;  
Which cautious care prevents not, no, nor cost.  
Though Art may much your Strength and Lines relieve,  
And nice observance great Assistance give.  
Large be your Fly too, and might I advise,  
Expanded Wings should more provoke his Rise.  
To which if various Colours well you join,  
And time (which renders every thing Divine)  
Agree, it cannot fail to answer your design.  
Yet curling Billows should assist the Cheat,  
Quicksighted else he'll quickly shun the Bait.  
And clear the Water must, or else he Feeds  
Low on the Gravel, or the wasting Weeds.  
Yet Lobbworms scoured, them 〈◊〉 sure Friends you'll find,  
Then too your Tackling strengthen to your Mind.  
These cannot fail you, if the dying Year  
Say not, Desist, his Spawning time is near.  
A Troll some use, and some the Rod prefer:  
No matter which, since both like useful are.  
Less nice at bottom he devouring Roves,  
And boldly rushes, as he boldly Loves.  
The Mennows too his Rage not rarely feel,  
Try those, and if you can, procure the Reel,  
Which freely of its self emits the Line,  
(Needfully Long and yet securely Fine).  
The greedy Fish may have his full of Play,  
While unconcerned on the less Fry you Prey.  
Or wisely casting round your ravished Eyes,  
Salute the Author of these mighty joys,  
With these or more adapted Thoughts than these:   

Celestial Bounty! How shall I repay  
Those Blessings which thy Mercy throws away?  
Each Morn, each Hour, thy Lavished hand I find;  
Make me less sinful, or be thou less kind.  
Neglected Mercy must to Vengeance turn;  
Be thou my Love, though by the Atheists scorn.  
Come here ye Fools, though in Opinion Wise.  
Come here and see with natural Reason's Eyes.  
Reason, your Boast, though an imperfect Guide,  
The weighty Controversy shall decide.  
In beauteous order see the Waters move,  
And show like Motion in the Spheres above.  
Tell me, Could Human force such Skill attain?  
And where that fails, sure Chance attempts in vain.  
Chance Mimics Art, and Nature helps the Cheat;  
But 'tis a different Glory to Create.  
Besides,  
Though Gay the Sun his Course each Morn renews,  
Chance cannot hold the Reins could she the Work produce.  
No! here consistent Beauty Rules the whole,  
Moved by an Ardent and Continual Soul.  
When that is kind, the Sun's diffusive Ray  
Ripens the Fields, and drives the Mists away.  
When sullen, than the strongest Beauties pine,  
And Chance itself no kind Relief can bring.  
That Flowery Mead is not by Chance so fair;  
But knows its Seasons, and observes the Year.  
The Flocks alike their Annual Offerings pay:  
But all would fade, were purblind Chance to sway●  
O Mighty Author of all Earthly things!  
And Heaven no less thy wise Creation Sings;  
Let not me vainly offer to dethrone  
Thy will, to Idolise my foolish own.  
Still in my Soul more genial Gleams infuse,  
That I by others scorn may wisely choose:  
May wisely choose thy Precepts to Obey,  
And all things else fling with contempt away.   

Come back my Muse, now change the weighty strain,  
And take the humble Anglers up again.  
Sing next the Trout, for next in Sport and Kind  
He comes. O thou, who here apply'st thy Mind,  
Tread softly, and be sure keep out of sight;  
Or the Shy Fish will balk thy Appetite.  
Nice as thy hopes too, be thy Rod and Line,  
Nice be thy Flies, and cast exactly fine.  
For which nor Rod, nor Line of length should want,  
Full Six Yards each, if so the Streams consent.  
Taper and light, as long, from Hand to Hook,  
If for the Fly and in a Crystal Brook:  
Or though in muddled Streams y'are forced to cast,  
Yet still the finer, you succeed the best.  
Fineness in Angling 's th' Anglers nearest Rule;  
Tho Prudence still must regulate in all.  
For Wise Men will not trust a single Hair  
With Weight, which dead, it could not easily bear.   

If then with Natural Flies to fish you choose,  
Observe the Season, and provide for Use.  
Observe the Fish, as round for Prey they rove,  
And gain your Baits where best they seem to love.  
For search all Nature, and this Truth you'll find,  
Variety, the Mistress of Mankind,  
Is not to Species or to Sex confined.   

But if the Artificial you'd prepare,  
First well to make them use your utmost care:  
Some Brother Angler freely will impart  
The useful Ni●●ties throughout the Art.  
And Verse nor Prose can ever teach you well,  
What Masters well, but Practise best will tell.  
Only at large the Muse may thus exhort;  
Nature best mimicked, best secures your Sport.  
Of Flies the Kind's, their Seasons, and their Breed,  
Their Shapes, their He●, (which nicest Observation need.)  
Which best the Trout admi●es, where easiest gained  
Experience best will teach too, or your Friend.  
For several kinds must every Month supply:  
(So great's his Passion for Variety.)  
Nay, if new Species o'er the Waves you find,  
Try, you'll acknowledge Fortune amply kind.   

The Fly, the hardest Task, thus learned, prepare  
To cast your Line distinguishingly fair.  
Cast oft, till by Experience perfect made,  
Your pains are in the sequel well repaid.  
If on the Surface first your Line should light,  
The Fish spring out, nor soon recover the Affright.  
But if the Fly, strait for a quick Surprise,  
The greedy Wantoness scarce prepare to rise.  
If short he cuts, next Throw be sure beware;  
He saw too much, the Angler stood too near.  
But keep your Shadow off the purling Stream,  
And cast, and long you cannot cast in vain.  
For if no obvious failure interpose,  
You speed, or will not speed in forty Throws.  
But if he thus exacts too weighty Pain,  
And with less Art you would your Hopes obtain:  
Since all men Artists are not, let it be  
Your choice the less precarious means to try.  
The Worm at no time can your Pleasures fail,  
Unless the boundless Floods or Winds prevail;  
Unless the Frosts have almost chained the Streams,  
When dangerous Fevers would revile our pains.  
Here, though the Streams, by whatsoever Cause,  
Of Mills, of Rains, or Artful Overflows,  
Prove Milky-white, no balk ●ou need to fear;  
For all is homelily destructive here.  
Thick Lines, thick Rods, Hooks answerably strong  
And Worms of any sort, as ill put on.  
The troubled Streams the treacherous Lines disguise,  
And he's betrayed by trusting to his Eyes.  
Thus while the Rogue without Precaution preys,  
He's murdered by the most unskilful ways.  

* Here ●he Author rid●●●i●s the Vulgar.  Some to Ape Art, a hollow Bullet take,  
And of small things a mighty Pother make.  
Hook above hook they place, exactly nice,  
To prove Perpetual Motion no Devi●e.  
For if a moment still the Weight should lie,  
Their Sport's not only spoiled, but their Philosophy●  
Thus needy Lads at Thames' fairest Bridge,  
With Hosts of Lines the homely Fry besiege●  
But with course humble Labour w●y should we  
Adjust our Sport by their Necessity?  
With equal Justice we their careful Zeal  
Might Ape, who on the rough Dee attempt the 
† A sort of Boat used in the River Dee, and carried by the Fisherman to the Water to fish in.  Corricle.  
Struggling with Force too high for Human Blood,  
The Curse of Want, and an impetuous Flood,  
Seeking with Life's Distress their Livelihood.  
Such things we rather justly call Distress;  
For how agrees it with the Name of Ease?  
When a poor Country Hind a faithful Turn  
Partakes, and bears the Boat by which he's born.  
Pleasure like this may suit their Rustic Souls:  
But neither suits the Poet's Verse or Rules.  
Somewhat uncommon heightens his Desire,  
Which those that love not, may with Force admire.  
Thus I to Crystal Brooks resort, and choose  
Arms all Genteel and Neat, and fit for Use.  
A Taper Rod, and long, though neatly light;  
Bending by no means with its proper weight:  
Lines longer too, yet Taper; and if e'er,  
'Tis now that I prefer the single Hair.  
Small too your Hooks should be, and covered well  
Above the Arming by the Brandling's Tail;  
His head dejected best the Fish invites,  
And mutualizes best your choice Delights.  
For he that prudently this way will try,  
And Angles fine, as when we use the Fly,  
Traversing up again the Crystal Streams,  
Will ne'er lament expended Time or Pains.  
This way the Caddice too deserves your Care,  
And some with reason too the Float prepare:  
This they proportion to the Brook and Stream;  
Little, if clear and slow; if swift, less fine.  
Tho all things else should neat and taper be,  
And fine, if not finer than with which you try  
Your fortune with the Artificial Fly.  
Thus he tha● justly plays the Angler's part,  
In my opinion still should thrive by Art.  
And trust his Skill, though oft he be deceived,  
The Conquest will at last be well achieved.  
Less artful ways no doubt will much prevail.  
The Mennow, Lobworm, Stone-loach never fail.  
But these are common ways, which all men teach,  
And therefore far beneath the Muse's reach.  
She sings in Verse, which, though like Marum low,  
Sends Strength and Pleasure to the Studious Brow.  
Those who peruse her with attentive Heat,  
Will find her wondrous Chaste, and wondrous sweet.  
Come ye, who grandeur court, and call it Ease,  
Like sickly Souls, fond of mistaken Joys;  
Come on, for boldly I'll your utmost dare.  
Match me a Landscape just as this, and fa●●●  
From Noise and Hurries free, we sport our fill;  
Nor gain our Ends by Methods basely ill.  
No flattering Fop, no fawning Courtier here  
Disturbs our Peace, or fosters Civil War.  
Nature's our Mistress, who can bear a Look,  
Nor fears a Lover's Censure or Rebuke.  
Look on those Hills, though high, the Rural Swain  
Visits with Joy, nor fears his Aching Brain.  
Or let's descend. heavens! how severely Nice  
Proud Caelia in her tattered Mantua is?  
Painted and patched, hiring with what she's hired.  
She damns her Soul to have her Face admired.  
While Beauty here in Native Splendour reigns,  
Requires our Wonder, and explodes our Pains.  
Each healthful Green, each flowery fragrant Mead  
Command our Praise, since they our Art exceed.  
Here are fair Streams too, full of fresh delight,  
And Willows more than lovely to the sight:  
Since thence the Angler by a wise deceit  
Hawls the Strong Captive from his lov●d Retreat.  
Nor do those Falls the Ear, those Meads the Eye  
Offend: Nor do those Fish that leap so high,  
They seem resolved to populate the Air,  
And hold conjunction with their Brother Star.  
Ah! happy they, who free from Vice and Care,  
With wise Content improve their Moment's here:  
Free from the Vices of the Noisy Town,  
Who study thus and here to lose their own.   

Go on my Muse; next let thy Numbers speak  
That mighty Nimrod of the Streams, the Pike.  
For justly next may he thy Verse command,  
Who sways the Streams, and hardly yields on Land.  
O Anglers! here much Caution use and Care;  
If once thy Bait he gorge, alas! beware.  
Thy Rod, thy Lines, thy Hooks, are all too small;  
The Tyrant's strong, and rudely forces all.  
Hast thou not seen a Vessel richly fraught,  
Returning home, big with the Wealth sh'as got,  
Just on the Coast snapped by some Privateer,  
Himself the Prize of some big Man of War.  
Such oft, alas! has been my own defeat,  
My boasted Prize has only been the Bait,  
That hastened on an unprevented Cheat.  
For as the French whole Country's first deface,  
And then Inhuman Contributions Raise●  
So Tyrant like he makes my Loss his Play,  
Leaves not my Prize, but forces all away.  
Which to Revenge (for no Man can provide  
Against chance, by Human Reason unespyed)  
A stiff neat Nine-foot Pole you must prepare,  
Which may in several things repay your care.  
Whether your struggling prize your Caution Ask,  
And Landing-Nets Fixed to't facilitate your Task:  
Or by fixed Rings you further this design,  
By casting finely out your Bait and Line,  
It useful is; and here so needful too,  
Want it you mayn't, y'are ruined if you do.  
With this have always Hooks securely Strong,  
Well Wired, and joined to Lines sufficiently Long.  
A Dace, a Gudgeon, or a Stone-Loach take;  
Or wanting these, some happy trial make  
Of something else of the less usual kind,  
As Frogs, or Eels, or Garbage; for you'll ●ind  
His greedy Appetite will leave your doubts behind.  
Baited with these you need not fear your Prize.  
True Glutton-like his Stomach rules his Eyes.  
Oft I at Swallows sweeping o'er the Stream  
Have seen him Snap, and Balked, advance again.  
Which shows, that if your Lines be wisely strong,  
Without success you cannot tempt him long.  
Perhaps the day is hot, no breeze of Wind  
Is to your hope and vain endeavours kind:  
Rise early then, or try your Fortune late;  
Or else till more auspicious Minutes wait.  
When keener Winds from any quarter blow.  
The Tyrant hardly waits a Second throw.  
But when you feel him pull, ah then be wise;  
For want of patience never lose your Prize.  
A little swallowing time and you're secure;  
He rarely leaves his Prize, or quits his Power.  
But if the Streams you use are thinly stored,  
And therefore small's the pastime they afford,  
Methods more fatal you may wisely try;  
Methods such force should only justify.  
However, as they bear the term of Art  
To teach them is the Muse's power a●● part.  
First then prepare a Taper handsome Pole,  
Long, if not somewhat longer tha● the Troll;  
Not thick, but such as you may easily use,  
Such as ●or Hunting those who choose it choose.  
To this a thin, but strong well twisted Line,  
And Hooks, both Large and fit for your design,  
Fix: And when Baited, if you chance to fail,  
Some strange mysterious fortune must prevail.  
By often bobbing down your well-fixed Bait,  
In any place likely for his Retreat,  
You tempt him rashly to renounce his Eyes,  
And if your Tackling hold, he's sure your Prize.  
Nay though the Noise the Tyrant only hears,  
He's summoned, and undoubtedly appears.  
So that if● all along the Banks you try,  
And yet succeed not, you may safely cry,  
These happy Streams are free from Tyranny.  
This way too almost all things he'll devour,  
Raw Flesh or Guts, are Fish without your power.  
Nay some, whose Mistress was necessity,  
By Bloody Rags have wrought his Destiny.  
But still, if clear t●e day, keep far from sight;  
Quick-eyed he is, a●● quickly shuns the White  
In spite of Anger, ●●ase, or Appetite.  
Sometimes the wretches, who for Lucre slave  
With Snares and Night-Hooks seem the Stream to pave.  
But s●ill the Angler should such Tricks defy:  
His end is Pleasure, Theirs Necessity.  
However, if he see af●r a Prize  
Beaking at La●ge, if then his luck he tries,  
And halter som●●●●● fry to ●empt him to;  
Here is true 〈…〉 will allow.  
But poaching 〈◊〉, t●●t the Game destroy,  
Anywhither ●pa●● the 〈◊〉 nor the Fry,  
Sho●●d othe●●i●e employ 〈◊〉 Muses Strain;  
But that the Whipping-Posts were raised for them.  
Were I, who only thus could wish to be  
Above my best, my own, my loved Degree,  
(And thus to wish sure Reason will allow,  
Since Roman-like I could resume my Blow,  
And mildly lay those gaudy Grandeurs down,  
Justice and slighted Truth restored to Rome).  
Were I, that long not for't, to State preferred,  
Some County and its Peace my trusted Ward,  
This care, however low, however mean,  
Should not escape my Eye, as now my Pen.  
Why should the niggard Magistrate pretend  
To Charity? When, should we search the End,  
You'll find, false Hypocrite! the Lame and Poor  
Begging and Starving at the Miser's Door.  
But while his Store escapes, he thinks it best,  
Acts be infringed and Laws be long transgressed.  
Besides no Sportsman he, why should his care  
Extend to what his foolish Friends Admire.  
Not he, let poor folks live upon the Spoil;  
He saves his Coin, and gains their Love the while  
But, Madman, should we reason well and true,  
How little worthy of your Place are you?  
Are Laws that pass the Sanction of the Crown,  
Are they such Play-things for a Country-Town?  
Sure things so trifling, of so little weight  
Can ne'er deserve a Nations grave Debate.  
Howe'er the Law thy Duty makes; though thou  
Vain Fool pretendest thy Duty makes the Law.  
O mighty Manlius! how much amiss  
Was thine, to what our Modern Justice is!  
Thou to the Laws paid'st such severe respect,  
Thy own Son's Life atoned for their Neglect.  
While we by Oaths and Interest doubly bound  
Secure the Guilty and the Guiltless wound.  
But stop my Muse, for thy Satiric Rage  
Must never hope to cure this vicious Age.  
Let other Men acquit their Duties there,  
Do thou pursue thy Task, and every where  
Strew Sweets, that may the wand'ring Fops invite,  
And freshen every Lover's Appetite.  
For Vrtue will have Charms, though Fools despise,  
To lure the wavering, and to hold the Wise.   

Next Sing the Perch; for justly this he claims,  
Lavishly kind to every Angler's pains.  
Others the Carp and Tench before him place;  
But why? Since there no equal sport he has.  
They Muddy Moats and Standing Waters love,  
And rarely in the Crystal Curren●● rove.  
Or when they do, so nice they are, so coy,  
The Angler's skill and patience they defy.  
While This disdains their course and homely feed,  
And bowing Flags prefers to stinking Weed.  
Fish where he is (and you will rarely find  
A Stream that has him not) he's always kind.  
In gentle Rains, or after violent showers,  
He roves, it's true, and eagerly devours;  
And yet as true it is, the violent heat,  
But very rarely spoils his Appetite.  
Beneath impending Willows oft he lies,  
Watchful to take, or chewing on his Prize:  
Then tempt him warily he'll spring to bite,  
So greedy he, so vast his Appetite.  
Nor waits he seasons, nor is ever coy,  
No, though forewarned he hardly can deny.  
Deep pits he loves too, though you'll rareli'st fail  
Where deepest Eddies rapidly prevail.  
Yet soon in April after spawning Hours,  
He haunts, and freely bites upon the Scours.  
But large your Float should be, your Tackling strong,  
Nor must you think his slow digestion long.  
For, if he By't, his Prize he will not leave:  
'Tis not his use or nature to deceive.  
Nor is his Palate delicate or nice;  
He Kickshaws eats, but nothing comes amiss:  
Though yet some difference you may wisely make,  
And best to tempt him, Worms or Mennows take●  
These he will never slight; and if wild Fame  
Say true, the Lobworms easiest conquest gain.  
Though if my weak Opinion might prevail,  
In Marshy Meadows, Angler, never fail  
To search the Cowdung for the Bluish Tail:  
These, tho' new taken from their homely Soil,  
By my Experience far all else excel.  
Though when misfortune all my hopes has crossed,  
And all my Baits were either spent or lost;  
Fruitful Necessity this change has wrought,  
And to my aid this useful Knowledge brought;  
Some little part of my least valued Prize,  
Has furnished out most fortunate Supplies.  
The Roach or Dace in little pieces cut,  
And on the Hook with careful safety put,  
Have wi●h unthought advantage slaughtered more  
Than all the lost Preparatives before.  
Nor was this trial trivially blessed,  
For Pike and Chubb have strenuously pressed  
To force the liquorish bit before the rest●  
Thus other Baits ingenious Souls may try,  
And owe great things to Curiosity.  
Things which may set aloft his Angling Name,  
With those who court so much the breath of Fame.  
For tell me, Muse, by whom the Virtuous live,  
How lasting are the Bays that Poets give?  
How long shall Guttemberg's admired Name  
Survive and load the flagging wings of Fame?  
Brave Guttemberg, who first the secret found  
To compass Ages in a Paper wound.  
Or what compare we if our Reason's nigh  
To Monte Regio's Eagle or his Fly.  
Or to conclude an endless Theme, and raise  
Just Trophies to Divine Invention's praise;  
Tell me how jubal first the Mystery found  
To strengthen Numbers, and to order Sound.  
The labouring Anvils first their force declare,  
And wound for want of power to charm the Ear.  
Then on his Harp their Forces he essayed,  
And from the feathered Choir discoveries made.  
Thencest arted Number, and thence Harmony;  
Descant from thence, and after Symmetry:  
O Sacred Science! early from above  
Taught, where their Souls are ever tuned to Love:  
Thee Angels practice; thee, poor we below,  
By thy infinity can only know.  
And just it is thou shouldst his signet bear,  
Who reigns above, and justly fixed thee there.  
Whence thy vast charms we by faint glimmering know;  
So high is Heaven, and humble Earth so low.  
And thou who doubtest the great Authority  
To her ascribed, the Sacred Volumes see.  
There thou'lt perceive the Son of mighty Love,  
In Music's sounds descending from above;  
And Pain and Sickness tightly fly,  
The all-dissolving force of Harmony.  
But soft, you'll cry, perhaps, let's justly weigh  
Your Arguments, and the whole Truth survey:  
Reason you'll find on a fair scrutiny,  
Condemns no part but the whole History.  
And those Old Chinese Tales which first begin;  
But force the credit of those worse within.  
Come then, ye Fools, and if ye can evince,  
For things of common Reason, common Sense;  
Say why ye Classic Truths so soon allow,  
And talk of Caesar, Pompey, Heaven knows who?  
How know ye Nero Ruled? Or how that Rome  
Once held the Sovereign Reins, all Europe in a Town?  
This on Tradition you can safely take;  
But failed, by Reason ye distinctions make;  
Where greater reasons, Truths that cannot die,  
Require our Faith, command Authority.  
Might I, whom close endearments nearly tie,  
Might I advise my Delius he should fly,  
Fly far the treacherous Poisons, fair Deceits,  
With which each florid Fool his Nonsense Baits.  
For though but barely probable they were,  
How can our Reason with blind Fortune share?  
Or how can it consist with Sense or Wit,  
For Human things such mighty hopes to slight?  
Not true, he nothing loses, if they be  
A boundless Bliss of Blessed Eternity.   

The Barbel's next in Sport, though not in Kind,  
For few there are in goodness come behind.  
But sport, the Angler's aim, has placed him here;  
And when he finds him, sport he need not fear.  
Close at a Current's end he's sure to lie,  
Low in the Streams, as the swift Trout runs high.  
True River-Hog, upon the Sand he roots,  
And like him then all things occasion suits.  
Lobworms well scoured, rarely or never fail;  
But then even Bees or Garbage will prevail.  
And if you early to your Pastime high,  
He's hungry, and devours more eagerly.  
Though when the Winds a little curl the Waves,  
Much caution and much patience too he saves.  
For common caution must be still your own;  
You know him large, and you will find him strong.  
Therefore large Lines and Hooks you must prepare;  
He's bold, and does not any danger fear.  
Nay, Packthred-like, no obstacle is found,  
If your fair Bait trail gently o'er the ground.  
And high he rises not, unless delight  
Force him to wanton; when, he will not By't.  
Nor till wet April's past, his Spawning time,  
For then he's Sick, and blasts your whole design:  
But if kind Fortune at some Current's end  
Shows you clear Sands that by degrees descend,  
Where some close Weeds his labouring Fins supply,  
Or hanging Osiers shade the Sporting Fry;  
Angler take courage, every inch beware,  
For, if in all the Streams, the Herd is there.  
Tempt not too evidently, keep out of sight,  
And rest assured, like greedy Perch they'll By't.   

Next sing the Ch●vin, who is always found,  
In quick deep Streams that run o'er Marly ground.  
For though in Muddy Rivers much he preys,  
Yet there he nicely seeks the Sands or Clays;  
Or else the Bridge his safeguard is, and haunts  
Where strength in tackle best his own supplants●  
For if he Bites (as if you caution use,  
And tempt with Nature, he will ne'er refuse):  
He's of his dangerous holds with ease bereaved.  
And after some few flounces well deceived.  
Here let your Hooks be large, your Angle strong,  
And strong your Lines, though hardly half so long.  
For if for him alone your Skill you try,  
Floats must be spared, as when you use the Fly,  
And gentle dabs must summon him on high:  
But then beware, no Shadow, no nor Noise,  
For either he both fears, and always flies.  
But if with caution you for sport prepare,  
He Bites both all the day, and every where.  
Oft beaking under shady Trees he lies;  
And then, if hid you are, he'll freely rise.  
Or though your Rod have struck him with its shade,  
Have patience, and the virtue's soon repaid.  
Even swallows swooping o'er the Crystal main  
Fright him, but soon the Coward mounts again.  
Oft I with Lobworms in a hasty Stream  
Have had vast sport, without the least design.  
Yet still I found, that as the day increased,  
My sport grew less, and nothing at the last.  
Yet still by other Baits I then have sped;  
And other Baits true Anglers should not need,  
The Door, the Caterpillar, Wasp, or Be,  
Or Grasshopper, or Moth, nay, any Fly  
He'll take. Though yet if I may Bait might choose,  
If to be got, I'd most the Mennow use;  
For if the River's deep, and Current strong,  
Without success you cannot tempt him long.  
But then the Winds should somewhat too agree,  
Unless your early Rise the want supply.  
F●r he's so idle in the midday Heat●  
He'll hardly try the most alluring Bait.  
But cool so well he loves, that if you spare  
Him spawning March, he'll bite throughout the year.   

The Bream, less common, so more rarely known,  
Requires the Angler's Study next, and Song.  
Nice to extremes, his Minutes you must wait,  
And early with the Sun, or with the Moonshine late.  
Unless the Winds blow a fresh Mack'rel Gale,  
And then of Sport all day you will not fail.  
With strong Silk Lines, and Hooks just Gudgeon small;  
Rods long and strong, and Baits the chief of all;  
Choose some slow Stream, in its own deepness black.  
And let your Float not two foot Water make:  
There is his haunt, and if your Length permit,  
Just in the middle of the gloomy Pit  
You'll find him roving, and with ease divine  
'tis he that flats your Float upon the Stream:  
He gorges then● a●● Angler● a●● beware:  
If large your Bait, you must no Patience spare;  
If small, a little serves; his mouth allows  
Of nothing large; the less the better does.  
Therefore though some the large scoured Dew-worm choose,  
Do thou the Flag, or well-scoured Red-Worm use:  
He'll these with greedy Appetite devour;  
And when he bites, your Prize is always sure.  
But my Experience ever must prefer  
The small Red Dew-Worm, if with pains and care  
Him first in Moss and Fennel you prepare.  
These he with passion loves, they hold his eyes,  
And suiting's mouth, enlarge your Sport and Prize.  
For Flies and Pastes, or other Baits I've found  
My Patience rarely with common Largess crowned.  
And therefore leave the Angler there to try  
If he can purchase better Luck than I.  
Their Humours all things have. The Pike at Paste  
Has struck, and for his Folly struck his last.  
In july at his spawning, I the Bream  
Have found most eager in a rapid Stream.  
Close at the bottom scouring there he lies,  
And then will nibble any Bait he sees;  
So different from all else his Nature is.  
But this is random Chance, not worth a Line,  
For nothing well he takes in spawning time.  
His Stomach's queasy then, as in the rest;  
And then the Angler wisely should desist.  
Perhaps sometimes your Line or Hooks appear;  
Or else the Heats your Patience will require.  
But Patience is the Angler's first great Rule,  
And Patience here has least of Ridicule.  
How does the fawning Courtier daily wait,  
Or those who follow Law, or Toys of State?  
O Delius! by kind Fortune largely blest,  
Let not the Cheats of Grandeur break they Rest.  
On Promises and Quicksands ne'er depend;  
Nor on a Lord, though once thy seeming Friend.  
Honour no Claim allows: Alas! his State  
Commands his Promises he first forget.  
And where's the Statute that will ease afford?  
Since Tom the Promise made, and not My Lord.  
He quits past Friendship when he lofty grows;  
And though he promise well, their Strength he knows:  
For if you bring him for't to Equity,  
His Party's strong, and Privileges high.  
In my own business blessed, contented I,  
Who Grandeur seek not, and its Charms defy.  
Even I unmoved have heard a Statesman prate  
What mighty things he'd do, what Favours get,  
And never forfeited my Quiet yet.  
Nay more, believe me, Friend, (for I have known  
Some Passages in Court as well as Town);  
Among the men whose Sacred Character  
Should harbour nothing but what's most sincere;  
Friendship with great Prefermens' rarely known,  
But, Bucket-like, this weighs the other down.  
For though Grave Blockheads cajole Men of Sense,  
Their own dear Image have most Influence.  
Let then Preferment by Resemblance go,  
It can't move me, and with less reason you.  
You on Paternal Acres justly got,  
May live, and Great Men envy at your Lot:  
With a kind Partner of my Joys and Cares,  
While freely I drill on heavens bounteous years●  
With all my poor Endeavours fond to get  
An honest Name, and moderate Estate.  
Let griping Codrus Pen and Paper save,  
And for his Issue make himself a Slave:  
By cunning let him all his Deed's disguise,  
And affect silence, to be fancied wise:  
By Methods ill I'll purchase no Estate,  
But Truth and Virtue love at any rate.  
Now from the Crystal Brooks and Purling Streams,  
Angler, a while withdraw your careful Pains;  
And to the Carp and Tench your Art apply,  
Which love still Pits, and Crystal Currents fly:  
They all your Patience, all your Strength require;  
And though admired, rarely your Baits admire.  
Sometimes in Rivers to your Lot they fall;  
●ut there's no Vigour where the Hopes are small.  
Man's Frailty's such, that even in things Divine,  
Kind Heaven by Crowns is forced to force him in.  
But in full Ponds your Sport you need not fear,  
●f Laziness be not your greater Care.  
For here to speed, you with the Sun must rise,  
And then the largest easiest are your Prize:  
Though if beyond the second Watch you stay,  
The smallest only bite, and hardly they:  
Of such vast moment is the Place and Time,  
Your balking those oft balks your whole design.  
But first, my Tyro, of your Lines beware,  
For Conquest is not to be slighted here:  
Tho little Circumspection will suffice,  
Yet you must sweat before you gain your Prize:  
He's strong, will struggle, and unless prepared,  
Your Conquest's doubtful, and your Labour hard.  
Ponds weedy feed the Tench, and that that's clear  
Best please the Carp, but both for Mud declare.  
But in their Baits so closely they agree,  
They feed just as they live, promiscuously:  
Both love their Baits, prepared with nicest Care,  
And both best take 'em vilely strong of Tar.  
Low at the bottom too i'th' deeps they lie,  
And rarely, very rarely feed on high:  
Tho oft the Carp in hottest Summer days,  
While on the Surface wantonly he plays,  
On Bread or Worms with eager Passion preys.  
But if your Rod or Self offend his ●ight,  
He's gone, and blasts at once your whole delight.  
He's humoursome at best, Experience tells:  
For Season, Place, and Baits, and all things else  
Justly agreeing; I have one time slain  
Fourscore, and at another hardly Ten:  
And yet the wondrous Mystery to explore,  
A Net has largely paid the squandered hour.  
Perhaps at Night they found some unknown Feed,  
Or else the Soil dilated out their Breed:  
For though in May they usually spawn,  
Some cast in April, others say in june:  
Though Nature certainly may help receive  
From Soils; and Waters may assistance give:  
For even in Human Bodies this we find,  
Changed Climates to the barren have been kind;  
And, mewed in Town, an Heirless Loving Pair  
Have blest the Country, and been fruitful there.  
Nature is Nature still. Next let us see  
What Baits should best the Angler's Art supply;  
The largest Red-Worms highly some prefer;  
And for the smallest I must needs declare.  
But have thou both, and thou'lt the better speed;  
For with success at once I both have tried:  
And though to th' side the small for refuge fly,  
Thou in the middle more successfully  
Shalt fish; for though their Sport's perhaps secure,  
Thy Prize is larger, and thy Glory more.  
Gentles and Cadbaits too some Sport may yield,  
But yet the former justliest claim the field:  
And though for Pastes some mighty men declare,  
I never found the Secret worth my Care.  
But still perhaps thou'rt for the Crystal Streams,  
And for the Prospect slightest thy fruitless Pains:  
Fair purling Brooks, by Meadows more than fair,  
Are more your Choice than any Conquest here:  
Come then, I'll tell thee, if resolved to try  
That Patience which exceeds Philosophy,  
I'll tell thee where's their likeliest Haunt, and when  
They freeliest bite, and easiest are ta'en.  
If for the Tench thou seekest, make it thy pains  
To find the deepest Pits in silent Streams:  
No Stream thy Float by any means should move,  
But choose the stillest place, for such they love:  
Nor should the Breeze disturb thy well-tarred Bait;  
Therefore both long and early thou shouldst wait  
And if the Rivers fruitful are, thou'lt find  
They Red-Worms love, and are both free and kind.  
But if the Carp exacts thy greater pains,  
Choose still the deeps, but in the gentle Streams.  
Just in the midst he never fails to move,  
And Marsh and Flag-worms takes with eager love●  
Nor may'st thou well thy former Baits despise,  
He'll never fail to take them when he sees:  
But still the early Morn, or Evening late,  
Will crown, or make more probable thy Fated  
Nor can I justly blame thy happy Choice,  
So great my own, my equal Passion is.  
Clear Streams have Charms which standing Waters want,  
And Meads have beauties which the envious grant:  
But when they join, as far they all excel,  
As Maids their Lovers in dissembling well.   

Oh Friend! oh Friend! what Fortune's so Divine,  
What Fate's so safe or sweet as that of thine?  
Thou chear'st the Minutes, as they glide along,  
Unmoved at all the Follies of the Young:  
Thou chear'st the Minutes, for to thee they bear  
Scarce the minutest part of human Care:  
Thus by the Streams, and there supinely laid,  
With Thoughts for which Mankind was chiefly made:  
No Care, no Mischief in thy worst Intent,  
All, like thy Recreation's innocent.  
Through Nature's Optics thou dost wisely look,  
And readest thy Maker in the fairest Book.   

Next, Muse, the Roach, (and less regarded Fry)  
Thy Work's even done; for these no Industry,  
No mighty Art, no skilful Care require;  
And Force itself would make discoveries here.  
Each Puny Tyro here can easily tell  
The ways of Taking, that's of Angling well;  
For small the difference is, where perfect Force,  
And Vulgar Method makes the Captive yours:  
Tho even in this, if you would angle fine,  
You'll find it well requi●e your whole design:  
And though she break your single Hair, the Cross  
Is small, and small the patient Angler's Loss;  
Put on a new, they'll bite with equal Haste,  
And swallow Cadbait, Gentles, Flies, or Paste;  
Nay, Worms in Windy Wether they'll devour,  
Presented every where, and every hour.  
For unless Heat them to the Surface call,  
They'll (if unseen) no Caution use at all.  
Or though upon the Streams they beaking lie,  
Unlead your Line, and then both Worm and Fly  
Will fatal prove, if naturally cast,  
And not with Rustic Skill, or frightful Haste●  
In Wittham, and fair Thames' higher Streams,  
A kind of Roach there is, which Rustic Swains  
Call Rudd. His Colour is of purest Gold,  
Strong, broad, and thick, most lovely to behold:  
This at the Surface will with freedom bite  
At small Red Worms, or Flies, his like delight.  
But Angler, if you meet him, pray take care;  
He struggles long, and breaks the single Hair.  
But soft my Muse, thy soon-suspended Aid  
I now invoke again; my haste betrayed  
My Knowledge. There; see swiftly how he flies,  
Like Lightning quick, and like that past my eyes:  
The Archers Arrow no such swiftness knows;  
In vain the Angler or his Skill pursues.  
In March he spawns, though then he'll freely bite,  
Perhaps the Frosts provoke his Appetite.  
Then wisely would you, and 'tis worth your care,  
Wisely to prosper, all your Skill prepare;  
The Trout Companion both in Feed and Soil,  
And rarely caught with more than equal Skill:  
In Summer on the scours the Wanton lies,  
And (if unseen) he all day long will rise.  
But ne'er so gamesome, ne'er so brisk before,  
Once seen he flies you, and will rise no more:  
Therefore behind some Bush thyself conceal,  
And with the Flesh-Fly thou wilt rarely fail;  
For though on Worms he'll feed, or any Fly,  
None's so destructive, none so kills as he.  
Floats useless are, unless the Worm you try,  
And with the rising flash successfully  
Descend the Stream, than any thing he takes,  
And like the Trout but small distinction makes.  
This for the Dace. Once more, and then adieu;  
The Gudgeons haunts, and hours of biting show:  
For though small Art the little Prize suffice,  
His Sport's as good, and with the greatest vies:  
The River- Smelled he is, and if as rare,  
None doubts but he would lose in the compare.  
Few Lessons will the Angler's use supply,  
Where he's so ready of himself to die:  
For if no Heats or Flashes interpose,  
His Prize he'll hold, and yours you cannot lose.  
But should those Obstacles your Sport bereave,  
This Method will at all times well relieve:  
With some long Pole raise up his Love the Sand,  
And all are summoned, and at your Command:  
Or else if clear and shallow, wade the Ford,  
And if the Water's plentifully stored,  
You to your own Content may kill, and he  
You'll find resolved to gain the Victory.  
But yet in spawning time he lies full low  
I'th' Deeps, and bites not, tempted never so:  
For I in April fruitful Streams have tried,  
And found my Art and all my Pains denied:  
Nay, not the cordial Gentle could auspicious prove,  
Nor the small Red-Worm, his continual Love,  
Could change my Fortune, or his Fancy move.  
The Bleak small Flies upon the Surface takes,  
And never the least Hesitation makes,  
With an observing Eye, and curious Hand,  
Any Advantage easily is obtained.   

Desist my Muse, thy Work at last is past,  
Which with the Angling Few shall always last:  
Without thy Aid Sense shall supply the rest;  
No Rules they want, deserve not Verse at least.   

The Mennow, Flatterer like, is always nigh;  
The Angler's Plague, although he useful be:  
Wheree'er he breeds, he keeps a fearful Rout,  
And few the Rivers are that are without.  
To catch the Bullhead too, each Schoolboy knows;  
And to the Eel, Reason no Verse allows:  
Like Worms Engendering they no sport can make,  
But what the Schoolboys find in Whip and Snake.  
Though if my Delius to the Sport incline,  
One Rule I'll give to close with his design;  
After strong thundering showers your fortune try,  
With Lobworms, and strong Lines a strong supply;  
And while your stock endures, the slimy Crew  
Will shear your Hooks, and plague your clothes and you.  
Though would you my Advice sincerely take,  
You first this trial of the Prize should make.  
Hot dung, the slimy Virmin soon will find,  
If in overflowing Meadows well designed.  
There when you will the nasty jakes remove,  
Reason will terminate your care and love.  
In clustered heaps, like Worms thou'lt see 'em lie,  
And soon decide their Wise Philosophy,  
Who see no Spawn, and ask the Reason why.   

The Ruff, no Commoner, shall close my Song,  
A bold free Biter, though a little one:  
For since of Fish I treat, 'twould awkward seem,  
To end with Monsters, and with Maids begin.  
They Gentles love, but small Redworms will choose,  
And Mennow-like at no time will refuse:  
Have patience when thoust found the haunted Hole,  
And they'll not leave thee e'er thoust taken all:  
Thus they in Nature too, as well as make,  
Except in largeness with the Perch partake:  
These Norwich plenteous streams most justly boast,  
Here most beloved, and here abounding most●  
Nor must I sacred Cam in this forget,  
Come in my Verse for nobler reasons set,  
To raise my Song, for 'tis the Muse's seat.  
No wonder there the Watery Natives throng,  
Amphion's Harp drew Woods and Rocks along:  
They of all Kind's, admirers may command,  
While she's the Urn of Cowley's sacred hand.  
Nor, happy Nine, must Thou my Verse evade,  
Whose Charming Streams my Youthful sallies had●  
There were my innocent hours not badly spent;  
O that I had no greater to Repent.  
Unpoached are all thy Streams, thy Meadows free,  
What Stream is worthy to compare with thee?  
What but fair Trent, that wheresoever she flows,  
Nature luxuriant in her favour shows?  
Not thrice Ten Rivers, as some meanly feign,  
But Thrice so many Natives give her Name:  
Though should we trace her to her spacious Jaws,  
Thrice thrice Ten various Kind's we might disclose:  
The Anglers luxury thou art, and he  
No Recreation wants that lives by thee.  
Poached Wellin slipped, I must not yet disclaim,  
My Love, my well acquainted Witham's Name;  
Though Rent out, the Largess of the Poor,  
The Angler's pride she is, no River more.  
Idle must pass; for though I oft have tried,  
She always love, and often sport denied:  
Much less deserves she such penurious care,  
To punish Ladies when they Angle there.  
Speak not my Muse, thy Verse it sure would blast,  
To name, and more to justify the Beast:  
Poor Streams, thy well-taught Natives justly fly  
Thy Master's Bounty and his Tyranny.  
But Dun would blame the justice of my Pen,  
Who kindly used, returned it not again:  
But Dun from Anglers shall not fail of Praise,  
Even more than my poor humble Verse can raise:  
For mighty sure must be her vast desert,  
Who from an Arm can such delight impart.  
O Darn! thy Pleasures oft my mind employ,  
Much greater Streams may justly envy thee;  
Scarce one of all the Watery Court is found,  
That does not in thy little Streams abound.  
Witness ye River-Nymphs, and every shade,  
How often this my ardent Wish I've made:  
Blest might I with a moderate Estate,  
Which my own Labour never spared to get:  
Blest might I live an honest Country Swain,  
And with content in little compass Reign:  
No spacious Fabrics would I care to boast,  
Convenient Neatness would delight me most;  
Where from my Shades I could with joy survey  
Expanding Meads that on each side me lay;  
Just in the midst a Rivulet should pass,  
With pleasing Murmurs, and transparent grace:  
If falling Waters reached from far my Ear,  
'Twould raise the Landscape, and depress my care:  
Far off some good old Tower should strike my view,  
And teach the certain state of things below.  
There neighbouring grandeur might unenvied reign,  
While I'm allowed by all the Happy Man:  
Loved by my Friends, and if I must have Foes,  
Envied for my plain honest truth by those.  
But let all Vice, Ye Powers, be banished hence,  
And that Religion which is all Pretence.  
At my own Table I'd have no Man see  
Extravagance, and much less Penury.  
Nor should the Poor of cruel Want Complain;  
Nor should the Wronged implore my help in vain:  
Nor should my Sallies far from home extend,  
To see a Field, or cheer a drooping Friend:  
Or with the darling Partner of my Life,  
That mightiest Comfort of my days, my Wife,  
Hast to the neighbour Streams our luck to try,  
And balked in Sport, return assured of Joy.  
Such would I be, but if the Powers design  
Me other Fate, Why Fortune is not mine?  
With a sincere dependence I submit,  
Since I return but His, that gave me it.  
Such is the Angler's Life, so truly blest  
Are those that wait on fickle Fortune lest:  
That taste my Joys, and hold them what they are,  
And scorn to bring things trivial in Compare.   
FINIS.