THE Genteel Recreation: Or, the Pleasure of ANGLING, A POEM. With a DIALOGUE BETWEEN Piscator and Corydon.  
By JOHN WHITNEY, A Lover of the Angle.  
LONDON, Printed in the Year. 1700.   

TO My HONOURED FRIEND JOHN HYDE, Esq;  
SIR,  
THE Liberty you gave me this last Summer to Angle in your great Pond at Winckhurst, emboldens me in gratitude to present you with this little treatise on the pleasure of Angling; the observations are my own, and some of the Pleasure I received in your good Company when Angling at Heaver, and since in the Company of Capt. Comer, and an other Gentleman at Winckhurst; where in one Day we caught about twenty brace of extraordinary large Carp with very sweet Eels and Tench; I believe I shall hardly forget the Perch of eighteen Inches long, caught by Capt. Comer, nor the Old Gentleman's resolution, while we were drinking a Dram of the Bottle, a Fish run away with his Rod, which he being unwilling to lose, stripped off his  and leapt in, and in swimming proved too nimble for the Fish, for I assure you, he brought them both out with much content to regain his Rod.  
Sir, the Capt. assures me, there be larger Peareh in the Pond though I never saw a braver, should I commend the Fish some may think I flatter, but of all the Ponds I ever Angled in, I never received so much delight in so little time, nor ever eat of sweeter or larger Carp, for all we caught that did not exceed sixteen or eighteen Inches, we turned into the water again, thinking it pity to kill them before they came to their full growth, which commonly exceeds twenty.  
Sir, I know your Love to Fish and Angling, and how to your great cost, you have caused to be digged a large square Pond in your great Yard before your dwelling place at Sundridg, and storing it with brave Carp and other Fish, which Pond contains in length three hundred Foot, and two hundred and ten foot in breadth, all dug out of the side of a Hill to the depth of fourteen Foot, and wharsing it ninety foot against the Highway side, with Extraordinary good Planks of Oak, the Trees being felled in your own ground that made them, and then in the middle of the Pond a most delightful Summer House to go to by Boat, twelve foot long and ten foot broad, with a Fountain in the middle, where the water plays in sundry Figures; besides the Rails and Balisters that compass it round, there's a Platform of lead on the top, with Rails and Balisters to walk and Angle upon.  
But that which gives the greater grace, in my Opinion, is the Summer House standing upon a Fish House, which beside the Fish there kept, is stored all round with Nests for Ducks, where they breed in abundance, and under the Eves of the uppermost Platform, there is an Ingenious contrivance for Coves, wherein the Pigeons increase extraordinary; It's no easy matter for a Simon Suckegg to Rob either of their Nests, unless he'll adventure at one time both Drowning and Hanging: 'Tis very pleasant walking round the Pond, where a Man hath six or seven foot of Earth over his head on the one side for a shelter, while the other side defends him from the water by a shade of Osiers.  
I have also seen your round Fountain in your delightful best Garden, and the stock of Fish therein kept to be always at hand to pleasure your Friends, which is continually stored with Trout and Carp of the largest size; I remember also the Oval Fountain in the Kitchen Garden, which is a good Nursery for the younger fry, but above all, I admire at your Ingenuity in contriving that Square Pond on the top of your House, which contains good Carp and other Fish, and is an excellent divertisement when you are pleased to disport yourself and friends with your fine Water Works, I admired once how the water ascended to that Height, to be always full of sweet and fresh water, till you were pleased to show me how you performed it by the help of an Engine.  
If there be delights any where, I think you have them all at home, for a Man to see Fish swimming on the top of your House and the Fowls of Heaven to live and breed under the water, will be strange to those whose faith is too weak to believe, or capacity to understand your Ingenuity, how you have made Coves for Pigeons under the Pond where they breed, that a Man may justly say, that only Led keeps the two Elements asunder.  
Sir, you know that what I writ is truth, I would not have People think I equivocate when I tell them without Romancing, how that Pond on the Houses top serves not only to keep Fish, but also to play your fine Water Works, both in your Cellar and in the round Fountain in your best Garden, but also in the Oval Fountain in the fore Court, where the water rises twenty foot Perpendicular; neither must I forget the same water running through several Meanders, Plays also in the Summer House that stands in the great Pond.  
Sir, as you have to my thinking all the pleasure the Water and the Air can afford you at home, so I know you can have abundance more when you are pleased to divert yourself at Boreplace, and enjoy the Pleasure of the great Pond at Winckhurst, either in the Summer time with your Angle, or in the Winter with your Gun in your Boat, when the wild Ducks and other Fowl resort thither in great Numbers, few Ponds being of that extent as to cover twenty Acres, which it is most commonly in the Winter; beside your other Pond called Bailies, which generally covers twelve Acres of ground, as also the lower Pond that contains six Acres and feeds two Mills to grind Corn, these Ponds being extremely well stored with Fish and Wild Fowl in Winter, renders your Enjoyments beyond expectation.  
I could sum up more delights attend you, as your Pretty Warren for Coneys closed in with a substantial strong stone Wall, did I think, I could escape the censure of flattery of which I was never Guilty, and since I have been partaker of most of them in your Company, and hope still with your Permision to enjoy them, I do with true thankfulness subscribe myself,  
SIR, Your most Humble and Obliged Servant, JOHN WHITNEY.   

THE PREFACE TO THE Lovers of Angling.  
Gentlemen,  
THis little treatise of the Pleasure of Angling I Composed for my own Diversion, not that I Glory of being an Artist in that harmless Recreation; Really, I cannot presume to be the only expert in that Art, knowing there be many abler Artists, especially that Ingenious Author of the Innocent Epicure whose Poem is worthy Admiration; I have taken nothing from him, nor others who have wrote of the Art of Angling, and think my own Experience is best to display my own thoughts, which I have done in a kind of rambling way, my thoughts some time run on the Muses, as well as on Fishes, for which reason I have endeavoured to put my beloved Exercise in Verse, most was Composed by the River side, in such seasons the Fish did not yield the pleasure I expected, all are my own observations which I have truly related, with some Accidents which gave me good Divertion, and am as well pleased to see myself balked sometimes, by losing a well grown Fish by Carelessness or Accident, as to have him in my Bag, as you may perceive in some places in the Poem; I look upon him to be a good Artist, that takes some, not he that takes all; I am no engrosser, neither am I covetous of them, giving most and the best to Friends, and willingly instruct any that bear me Company, and are desirous to be Proficients in the Art.  
By giving them all the Instructions I can, with the knowledge of the baits I use, which frees me from the thoughts of using preposterous baits, some who have been Angling with me, have been possessed with a fancy that I had an Art to mingle something with my baits, and for that reason took more Fish than themselves, to undeceive them, I have given them of the same they have seen me bait my Hook with, yet they were never the better Artists; Nay, I have given them my ●od and Line, and taken theirs, with which I took some, though they were with my Tackling no wiser than before. I solemnly protest, all the Craft I used to succeed better than they, was only due observation of the depth of the water, and absconding myself from sight, with advantage of Sun and Wind, 'tis true, my Tackling is generally fine● then most used in our Rivers, who are afraid of breaking a Line or losing a Hook, by reason of the great obstruction of Bushes and Rotten Trees at the bottom: Tho in such places I commonly find the best sport, neither have they the knowledge, or else are negligent to lengthen, or shorten their float according to the depth of water, beside they'd make one Hook to serve for all Fish, which is merely ridiculous, with six or seven hairs to a strand, nay, I have known more; such bungling tackle is good for nothing but to frighten the Fish, while I ever use but two or three hairs at most, and if clear way, will hold a Chubb of a Foot long. If I am hung on obnoxious Bushes or Stubs under water, I have ways to free my Hook, or if lost, I need not grieve, for I have always more ready, Experience is the best director and by daily observations.  
A Man may if stocked with patience succeed to his wishes, but he must have an extraordinary care to observe the seasons, without which all is but labour in vain, due consideration is to be had to his baits as well as Tackling, which are to be sweet and clean scoured, especially Worms and Gentile, the best Gentiles that I know breed from a Dead Cat, if the Angler be nice of his fingers, a pair of broad pliers may keep his hands clean, and a few days lying in bran will make them fit for his sport. I use to scour my Worms without Fenil or Grass, as most do about me, though they use them commonly just taken out of the ground, when I first take my worms, I put them into a large earthen Pan, that they may have room to crawl and purge out their earth and slime for about twenty four hours; then I wrap them in a Greasy Dish Clout which hath been used much, but not to salt meat, than I lay clean moist Moss in the bottom of the Pan, with worms in the clout and cover them over with more, in three days they'll begin to eat their way through the clout, and in the Moss scour themselves, when hungry, they'll return to the clout again to feed, and in a week's time be fit for use; I kept some three Months with once a week changing the Clout and Moss.  
It is but labour lost to describe the keeping of baits and making of Pastes, wherefore I forbear, only these two [except the fly] I most commonly use, and thought good to show the way I prepare them, though every one may follow his own fancy; I have been a Lover of Angling from a child and now above sixty cannot forbear, yet never could attain the Art with a Bow and Arrow to shoot Fish swimming, as I have seen Boys in the West-Indies; I make no question, but some will find fault and I expect it, but when I consider the world affords both wise Men and Fools, and both find equal admirers I am satisfied; as to the verse there is faults and folly enough, but grant Poetical Licence, if in pleasing no body I have pleased myself, and that's all the reward I desire.  
J. W.   

THE Genteel Recreation: OR, THE ART OF ANGLING.  

HAppy's the Man blest with a moderate state,  
His Grandsire's Land devolved to him by fate,  
And constant there remains,  
Bound fast by Laws strong Adamantine chains,  
He gently can survey his Meads, and be  
Spectator of his own felicity;  
Those curious Meads,  
New Pleasure breeds,  
A purling Brook just by,  
Where the Inhabitants  
Of all the watery Elements,  
Strive nature to outvie.  
Those various Beauties which the Meadows breed,  
The watery fry in spangled glory far exceed,  
While carking cares that do the mind oppress,  
By Men unwary of their happiness:  
Clogged with the burden of Domestic cares,  
May here dispel those linger fears,  
And learn new Joys, observing of the fry,  
How they at Natural and Artificial glories fly.  
Puffed with conceit,  
They take the bait,  
And by extorted usury die.  
While minds sedate, scorn the destroying pelf,  
And value not that all devouring shelf  
Of mighty riches.  
Thoughts most serene, and Calm the mind,  
No Counter buffs of Fortune blind  
Their Soul bewitches;  
Tho Heaven thunder, Jove his lightning send,  
They're always constant to their friend,  
And with a Heart most pure,  
The storms of Fortune ever can endure.   

II.  
But now I'll sing, how minds oppressed by care,  
Find sundry cures, but this the only rare,  
While by a Crystal brook,  
With Rod and Line and Hook;  
They strive for to surprise,  
The Rovers of the watery Element,  
Without a bad Intent  
Of hoarding up their prize.  
No Bags of Gold, for which the Miser's wish,  
And dies a Slave unto an empty Dish,  
Can them entice  
Their pleasure's more,  
Then all the store,  
That Damn themselves by greedy Avarice.  
Joys so supreme an Angler finds,  
While all the stream he views and therein minds,  
The true content,  
Of time well spent,  
In placing of his Hooks and Lines.  
His several baits he varies both to time and place,  
And thinks it no disgrace;  
Sometime an eager Fish,  
Frustrates the long expected wish,  
By breaking of his Line,  
Yet he'll not Curse nor Swear,  
Like those in passion are:  
But wait a more Auspicious time.  
For to retrieve the fleeting prey he lost,  
And that retaken Glory of the most.   

III.  
Now with the Tyrant of the Silver stream,  
I first, kind Maro, will begin my Angling Theme,  
And leave the Sallmon since our streams afford,  
No Habitation for that mighty Lord.  
I nothing know, nor nothing say of him,  
So leave him to his Pleasure where he'll swim,  
But for the Pike my chiefest love, my care,  
No pains, no cost, I willingly would spare,  
For his vocacious Appetite;  
Enkindles fervour to a fresh delight.  
When fair Aurora, leaves her dark Cavern,  
And Sol's uprising first I can discern,  
Shaking the moisture from his dew'y locks,  
To set a Lustre on a Thousand Lady Smocks.  
Enameling the Meadows fair and bright,  
But just relived from the terrors of the night,  
I march along, and with a dainty taper Pole  
Of nine foot long or more I make my troul,  
With Curious Rings fixed so to ply,  
And humour him my skilful Enemy.  
First from the Brook I take,  
A Gudgeon, Roach, or Chevin for my bait,  
Which suddenly I then empail,  
Upon my hook and fixing tie his tail;  
My hook well armed with wire strong,  
And commonly eight Inches long.  
I to my Swivel six, that so my line,  
From fleeting reel may give him his due time.  
The next care than must be to find his haunt,  
As well as to provide him his Provant,  
Tho he's not squeemish, all he sees  
Without distinction will his fancy please,  
Except his Brother Perch.  
Whose sharpened Javelins he disdains to touch,  
Well knowing with a Timorous care,  
His end approaches if ensnared there.  
So where two Rivers meet,  
And Loving streams each other greet,  
Then boldly shoot in one,  
Against that stream he certain lies,  
And Pirate like waits to surprise,  
The Merchant sailing on:  
Or, see near to a hollow bank, and silent shade,  
Where subjects of the watery Kingdoms made  
Them sure recesses, when the storms grow high,  
Their constant harbours to the scaly fry.  
There begin,  
And by an even throw,  
Strive to deceive the Fishes mortal foe.  
Just to the brim,  
Retrieve the sinking Roach,  
With gentle stirring than he will approach,  
With eager haste to taste the Loved prey,  
And Tyrant like take all, then turn away,  
Then give him line and let the reel so be,  
From knots and snarls exceeding free,  
He'll quickly drown himself in his Debauchery;  
Yet to my sorrow I but lately found,  
One took my bait and stoutly stood his ground.  
While I expected he should run or fly,  
The only certain sign to sing his obsequy:  
But he grown cunning,  
Lest his running,  
Should himself destroy,  
Spit forth the bait,  
And made a safe retreat,  
That balked my much expected Joy.   

iv  
In Surry Rises there,  
A branch of Medway, where  
Store of all sorts of Fish do breed,  
To serve for Pleasure and for need,  
Well stored with Game the Rivers be,  
Can they from poaching be kept free:  
Once Angling at the River's side,  
Observing how the stream  
In gentle motions than did slide,  
With eager haste to meet his bride,  
And make his Joys supreme;  
By chance I spied a Rustic Clown, 
* Jarvice Hills.   
A haling something up and down,  
To him I straight repair,  
And asked his business there.  
He told me Fishing for an hour or two,  
Lord, how amazed was I to see him go,  
A bush pulled from the hedge, his Angling rod  
No top, but like a staff with which Men plod,  
When driving home full udders to the pail,  
Heaven bless me when such tackling can prevail:  
His hook tied to a string, that to a piece of leather,  
A float just in the place where both were knit together,  
Fortune herself that time was double blind,  
She could not see and so perforce was kind.  
For strait he took two Bleaks, one Roach,  
And last of all a well grown Perch,  
Who gasping lay upon the ground,  
I Judged to weigh at least a pound.  
Pleased with the fancy I unto him gave,  
An Angle, Rod and Line the best I have,  
And showed him where good baits to find  
A Cow-turd, ten days old, and newly lined,  
With blew-tails which from homed Gentiles spring,  
A ready bait and good for every thing,  
The Man was Civil, and expressed his mind,  
In real thanks, than sought some better luck to find.  
At Eton Bridge we may at first begin,  
To Trowel or Angle which the Angler will,  
O'er pleasant Meadows which the eye invite,  

* Mr. Heury Streatfields'.  To De la-ware, whose Prospect gives delight;  
Surrounding Rivers sometime overflow,  
And wash the Walls of that most Ancient Fabric so  
As if they Homage paid to Streatfields' Fame,  
And tendered without trouble their abounding Game.  
Pike, Perch and Roach, the greedy Chubb and Bleak,  
With several others Men Ingenious seek,  
That use the Angle or Laborious Trowel,  
Morning or Night the Fishes to Cajole,  
And there's a Fish peculiar to that place,  
If Jove would Angle 'twould his Godhead grace;  
Roach-like he's made, his scales of burnished Gold,  
That shine like Mettle from Pactolus Rolled,  
Nameless he is, till some more fruitful Pen,  
Describes his wondrous make, like Adam when  
Baptising Creatures with Immortal Names;  
The Glory of great Medway and more Silver Thames.  
From thence o'er verdant Meads,  
Our Joys supreme exceeds,  

* Mr. William Streatfield.  When Heaver Castle to our eye,  
Congratulates our coming nigh,  
Where I full often have most welcome been,  
To him who is my friend, and thinks it is a sin,  
If we neglect his Cider and March Beer,  
His most obliging Company and cheer:  
Anglers are welcome still to him,  
A Rummer filled unto the Brim,  
Shows Bounty still confined within his wall,  
Till Love and Liquor brings a Deluge o'er us all:  
No thanks he'll have,  
His Soul is brave.  
Ah! Streatfield, thee I will Embrace,  
In Bonds of Friendship, time can't chase  
Thee from my mind, nor from thy Castlewall,  
Where Natures Blessings are abounding all.  
To Chidding-stone, two Miles or more,  
We Angle may, or then give o'er,  
If that the Sun decline;  
Tho many times within the Night,  
The Fish will eagerly and greedy by't,  
And make our pleasure all Divine.  
Penhurst, thy streams too Rapid and too large,  
For me to Angle in,  
My time ill spent I there discharge,  
And neither lose nor win.  
At Leigh, I know fresh pastime to pursue,  
And there all day till Night,  
I reap a double sweet delight;  
In thy Meanders among the watery crew,  
Tunbridge comes next and stored with Poachers plenty,  
Large is thy stream, of Fish yet almost empty.  
Large Nets the game do so destroy,  
That with an Angle few we can decoy;  
But here perforce I must give o'er,  
A stranger I'm unto the Neighbouring shore,  
The Current's strong and swiftly speeds,  
By Divers turn through the Meads  
To Maidstone.  
Where Oyster Ketches they in plenty ply,  
And other Vessels twice as big or nigh,  
Are coming home  
From Rochester, where with the Medway she,  
Most kindly meets and both fall in the Sea.  
Muse sing now the Trout, with all his Arts,  
His haunts, his motion and his sudden starts,  
Whenever a curious fly drops in the stream  
Make him thy choice and choose him for thy Theme.  
The offspring of the fair Darwent,  
In thousand pleasing Ruptures see him rise,  
With Murmuring pleasures to our Ears and Eyes;  
To force himself a vent,  
In gentle Numbers first he seems to go,  
But with united forces will overflow  
His bounds,  
And all the Neighbouring grounds,  
That lie below.  

* At Mr. Tollers.  Old Crockham Street, where first he makes his way,  
To view Sol's Glory and his brighter ray,  
The Joyful Issue of approaching day,  
He runs not far before he meets,  
Fair Squrries Nymph sand kindly greets;  
Three Sister Ponds well stored with fry,  
The Eternal bounties of the sky,  
Increasing more with stronger force,  
To Westerham Town he bends his course,  
Then visits Valence stony ground,  
And in Meanders hurls himself quite round  
To Braisteed.  
At Sundridg penned in narrower room,  
He gets more strength at length to roam.  
To Cheapsteed.  
Where first gins the sporting prize,  
Angler beware, for he's precise,  
And knows his time to sink or rise:  
If weather's fair and sultrey hot,  
Your labour's vain and nothing to be got, Trees;  
Unless a gentle Breez,  
Blow Neighbouring flies from off the taller  
Which to your hook and single hair,  
Judicious eye and special care.  
Angler tread soft, for if the ground  
By ruder feet make any sound;  
Then void is all your care,  
As well as if you stood too near:  
Which to prevent no shadow should cmoe nigh,  
Nor you to see,  
Where Fishes be,  
Into the waters pry;  
Keep the Sun constant in your face,  
Reflections on the water less will be,  
So you'll have pleasure to embrace,  
While others lose by their simplicity.  
Cheapsteed, I'd love thee couldst thou always be,  
From Knaves and Poachers ever free,  
Then thy sweet stream would multiply:  
To Longford then where first the worm we use,  
For these two baits I only always use;  
For Minnows none we have, nor none are nigh,  
For better sport should Trout our worms deny,  
And never rise at Natural, or at Artificial fly,  
Then sometime in a dusky evening late:  
A grey Snail from the ground I take,  
And gently o'er the stream I troul.  
'Tis safe, 'tis sure to try with all,  
If but some Rain the day before did fall,  
For Muddy streams a little vexed,  
With falling showers decoy him best:  
Or, to take a Beetle always brown,  
That Boys from off the Appletrees knock down,  
Which in an Evening late when all the Stars,  
To Heavens black Canopy withdraws.  
You may be sure good sport to sinned,  
If but the following precepts well you mind,  
Four Wings he has, two scaly, two of softest down  
But with his tail your largest hook encrown;  
Ne'er hurt him, all his Wings he will expand,  
And Sing a Murmuring Tune the Trout can understand,  
Who greedy of so sweet a prey,  
Leap strait and bear the Songster quite away.  
When with a sudden touch I feel him rove,  
I soon enjoy my wishes and my Love,  
Try this but once, you'll quickly find it true,  
And neatly after this same slight pursue.  
But let no noise the wary Trout offend,  
By stirring ground or reeds, lest vain your wishes end.  

* Mr. Farnabys.  Now through the Moor's I take my way,  
And silent search o'er Stones and Day,  
Which way the stream conducts me in my play:  
A well scoured Lobworm now I only use,  
Which eager Trout but seldom will refuse,  
But use no float to tell you when they by't,  
The very thoughts of such a thing will fright  
The wary Trout,  
Yet I'll resolve the doubt,  
How by a certain way,  
He'll yield himself and so become your prey:  
Let lead sufficient but your worm to sink,  
Drive gently with the stream I'th' middle or the brink,  
Close on the ground no stops or stay,  
To hinder all and spoil your play;  
But with a steady hand your Rod and Line so keep,  
That nothing but the ground your bait should sweep.  
For if the Line upon the surface lies,  
The Angler with his Tools is little wise;  
He'll miss his prey,  
Through his uncertain way,  
The Trout is still so .  
He Angle may,  
Ten hours a day,  
And never make one die:  
If once you feel him by't,  
At Morning or at Night,  
With leisure let him run,  
Or else your Joys are Balked by losing half your worm,  
Which to prevent, give time to Gorge the bait,  
And by a gentle touch you'll hook him straight.  
Down through the Moors to Otford gently go,  
Inviting pleasures still attend you, so  
To Shorham, where use your skill and choicest care,  
Both with the worm and single hair,  
And never doubt for pleasure most abounding there.  
At twenty places where the River turns,  
Is sport sufficient both for fly and worms:  

* percival Hart, Esq;  At Lulling stone, and Farningham,  
The Trout are kind and yield good game,  
If with judicious eye and steady hand,  
Your Rod and Line you can command,  
When Dartford, first comes to your eye,  
Pack up your Tools and homeward high,  
For sweet Darent by going thither,  
Flows into Thames and runs the Lord knows whether.  
Now sing the Carp and turn thy theme my Muse,  
To fresh delights,  
And cunning slights,  
That skilful Anglers use.  
This Fish takes no delight in Rivers much to be,  
But penned in Ponds enjoys a sweet Captivity,  
Well stored with such our Kentish grounds they are,  
And Sussex too yields some exceeding rare;  
For there I know a little Brook which runs,  
First with a gentle stream then silent turns  
Into a mighty Pond, and finding there a stay,  
Bemoans himself to have a freer way,  
Like to a dying Stag at Bay;  
There's Carp the glory of the Land, some be  
Thirty Inches long excepting three.  
And weighty too when brought unto the ground,  
Each Carp if large, may weigh at least five Pound,  
When Sol's bright rays began for to decline,  
A Lovely Evening and a constant sign,  

* Mrs. Burges, of Withyham.  A Reverend Matron with a Hook and Line,  
Had nicked the most auspicious time:  
Silent she goes and takes a shady stand,  
Watchful her eye and steady was her hand,  
For well she knew them both for to command,  
A worm well scoured without the help of stinking tar,  
That was her bait and that was best by far,  
Tho to my cost I've tried and certain know,  
That Tarr's strong stench hath little here to do,  
But kill the worm, but I confess that Fishes smell,  
Or that my apprehension is but ill,  
For I have seen them to my float and Led repair,  
And gently touch them with insulting care.  
Nice be their Palates, and their sense exceeding rare,  
Then by a sudden turn the bait they spy,  
They smell and swallow and exclaiming dye;  
Bless me I had forgot,  
This Tarr disturbs my mind,  
My Matron at the Fishing Plot,  
That is to Anglers kind,  
Before the Glorious Sun went down,  
Returning was the plodding clown,  
To sweet repose,  
But she packs up her Tools and homeward goes.  
Well Laden with a Brace or more,  
The just expense of but one only hour;  
Fraught with her luck some new designs,  
Caused me next morn to rise betimes,  
'Fore Sol had left his watery couch,  
And to the Pond with speed approach:  

* Mr. Nathaniel Rosewell.  Afriend had lately given to me a strand,  
And for its strength exceedingly commend,  

† Indian Grass.  Unhappy when it first came to our land;  
Or I, to pitch upon that Line,  
To Angle with at that unluckey time,  
No sooner was complete my Fishing Geer,  
But that I chanced to spy unto me steer.  
Two Carp that were of mighty size,  
My heart e'en leapt to make of one a prize;  
As they came Sailing careless on their way,  
A well scoured worm I in their course convey.  
The water there not two foot deep,  
Besides so clear,  
That all their motions plainly did appear,  
Behind a shady Oak concealed I stood,  
And with a wary eye observed the flood,  
And all their motions as they moved,  
Thus while they nearer drew,  
My hopes I still renew,  
They'd nible at my b●it,  
Tho after curse me for my sly deceit;  
And quickly plainly could descry,  
That one had something pleasing to his eye,  
He seemed to smile and with expanded Jaws,  
Hug'd his good luck and silent gave Applause.  
Till with a gentle touch I hooked him straight,  
While he stood wondering whence should come deceit,  
Under the Luster of so fair a bait;  
He never seemed, or scorned to run,  
But with a sudden yerk his tail did turn,  
And then as suddenly my Joys were gone,  
For my new strand gave way and broke,  
But what's become of worm and hook,  
For both I'm sure he fairly took.  
Vexed, no we Anglers often lose our prize,  
Complete let all our Tackling be and most precise,  
For Fishes prove sometimes more wise than we,  
As by this late ensample all may see,  
That Lovers of the Angle be:  
Immediately I left that stand,  
No speech in Fishes be,  
Yet one another they can understand,  
With sure dexterity.  
Then for the smaller fry I made my way,  
The stream and Pond affording every day,  
Chubb, Roach, and Perch and Jacks in plenty be,  
To give delight and fill necessity,  
Then Cadbaits from the sand I get,  
Or Antflies which the Roach Entirely Love,  
And lay my worms aside,  
Sometime with Gentles I did bait,  
My Treacherous hook and hid  
The barb with wings expanded of a fly,  
When eager Roaches mounted up above,  
To view the glories of the sky;  
With such like tricks as these one day,  
One Hundred Forty odd I made my prey,  
One Hook, one Line, one Angle Rod,  
One Mile was all the ground I trod,  
I scorn deceit,  
And have described the bait;  
That those who please hereafter for to try,  
With these same baits may well succeed as I,  
Yet some there be that talk of Tar and Pitch,  
And silly Oils the Fishes to bewitch:  
They're all unworthy of my love or care.  
Begun, begon, all nasty drugs, forbear  
My Muse to sing, but for the Carp a dainty worm and red,  
Will Rouse him from the bottom of his flaggy bed,  
Which when he takes and neatly hung,  
Your skill requires, your tackle strong,  
For out he shoots like Arrow from a bow,  
As far as Line and Rod permits him go:  
Yet turn him if you can, within the bent of Rod to roam,  
And then a Landing Net will safely bring him home.  
Sussex I leave thee, and to Kent repair,  
Where Ponds are large and waters ever clear,  
Full flowing streams, and Carp in plenty be,  
The hopeful issue to Posterity;  

* Sir Nicolas Crisps, at Squirres.  Three Sister Ponds of which I whilom told,  
Graced by most curious walks on dainty mould  
Prepetual Springs which sweetly bubbling rise,  
Like Niobes distilling pearly eyes;  

† Tho. Knight, Esq;  Then the square Pond or Fountain rather,  
A Mermaid always sprouting out the water,  
Where as it falls the Fishes seem to play,  
Till time or fate conveys the stream away.  

* Mr. John Hid, at Sundridg.  Boreplace a seat of my beloved Friend,  
Whose Ponds have streams on which a Mill attend,  
Lest overflowing streams the Corn offend,  
A Fountain too there is well stored with fish,  
And ready always for a friendly dish,  
If that grow empty than he can Recruit,  
By fetching from his Houses top sweet fruit;  
I mean large Carp that in a Pond there be,  
The product of his Ingenuity.  

† Henry Fane, Esq;  Combanck another Pond well stored,  
And twenty more the County can afford,  
But I'm a stranger to those fish and them,  
So leave them to a more propitious Pen,  
Yet if I Listed, I could Hundreds show,  
Of Ponds have Carp, but muddy grow:  
Where I good store have often ta'en,  
A sweet requital for my time and pain.  
Observe their season, nick the time aright,  
And baits that most they love to by't.  
Free from their spawning then they sickly be,  
And slight all baits, for nothing will agree,  
Where Law and Nature hates by sympathy.  
Muse sing the Fishes Aesculapius, and he  
Thy next of Themes a Sovereign King most free,  
Beloved of all without an enemy;  
None Challenge his Prerogative,  
Nor none he seeks for to enslave,  
But with a kind dispensing power,  
Diffuses virtue every hour.  
Hail great Physician of the watery Element.  
Had Nature more propitious been,  
And given thee liberty to vent,  
Thy virtue unto Fishes in the Rivers be,  
Then thy eternal golden fin,  
Might Challenge the sole Soveranity,  
O'er watery Kingdoms and Immortal be,  
Like those Diviner Fishes which in Heaven are,  
Choice Constellations of the Beatitude most fair:  
The mighty Salmon and voratious Pike,  
Declining grown to thee they seek,  
And Languishingly implore,  
That thy Diviner help, decayed Nature would restore.  
For well they know an Influence,  
Flows from thy virtue, their defence  
Is justly due unto thy care,  
When linger Age, or Sickness brings them to despair:  
But how can Mortals tell, or which way can descry,  
Those Sovereign Balsams in what Cells they lie.  
For to refund,  
And by a Godlike power,  
Man's vain Imaginations so confound,  
Past all his search for to discover;  
Anatomists there are who undertake,  
To search out Nature and all causes make,  
From occult qualities and well they may,  
Like Owls be blind in an uncertain way,  
Should they dissect thee in great Neptun's public Hall,  
And read a Lecture to the Fishes all.  
As on a Malefactor,  
Ten Thousand Crabbed Names they'd soon dispose,  
Yet never can thy Cabinet disclose,  
With Glory to succeeding Ages after,  
Where thy most precious Essence is prepared,  
Nor in what certain Repository stored:  
But there it is where Nature first ordained,  
And there it will remain,  
Physician-like all Patients to attend,  
Till cured, then reap Immortal fame,  
Who eager then would be for to destroy thy breed,  
Injustice sure, yet justly may succeed,  
When Numerous swarms increase and multiply,  
That there's no Room for the Ignoble fry,  
But with expanded fyns they sullen dye.  
Which to prevent,  
Heaven Angling scent,  
That by Ingenious strife,  
Decoying some, we give the rest a longer life,  
'Tis pity for to part the Carp and he,  
Since muddy Ponds with both do well agree;  
One bait doth both delight,  
A worm that's red and bright,  
Excels a Thousand trifling things,  
That bungling Anglers to small purpose brings,  
To scare the Fish away:  
Both yield sweet pleasure, both delight,  
Tho both contrary ways do by't,  
And also play,  
carps eager gape and draw the float downright,  
Then when he's hung he runs with all his might,  
Nor water beats he with his tail,  
Till life and strength together fail;  
The Tench he only gently sucks the worm,  
And several ways the floating float will turn,  
Until the hook within his Jaws doth lie,  
Angler forbear, for that once done to th' reeds he'll ply,  
Thinking his prey for to secure and speedy dye,  
One gentle touch he'll beat the water with his tail,  
Imploring help, no help can then prevail,  
Unless your strand or line give way,  
And so by eager haste become the Fish's prey.  

* The Lady James, at Ightham.  Thus lately by a pleasant Pond I Angling stood,  
With Carp and Tench indifferently stored,  
My hour was late and little time to stay,  
Yet took four brace then homeward made my way.  
Muse now raise thy fancy once again,  
And sing the Eel and where he doth remain,  
That yields no pleasure all the Winter long,  
But keeps in muddy holds most sure and strong,  
Till Sol's bright rays the waters gently heat,  
For than he looks abroad and leaves his safe retreat.  
Contrary to all Creatures else in stormy weather,  
He leaves his hold and flies the Lord knows whether;  

† On a Common near Crayden.  For I have seen a Pond without a Flag or Reed,  
Or any Bush for shelter, where no Fishes breed.  
To Man's Imagination, on a Common large,  
When Jove his thunder first began discharge,  
With flash'y lightning, mighty Peals did rend,  
The welkin so,  
That Travellers refused to go,  
Unto their Journeys end:  
By what preposterous Action or what cause,  
A sudden trembling to the Earth withdraws,  
And Eels in mighty number the surface soon  
Encumber in that horrid Afternoon;  
Angler now tell me if you had been there,  
What bait you'd use while Fishes lay so fair,  
All in your eye upon the Water's top,  
Not daring to descend,  
Having no shelter nor no Friend,  
Their tottering Kingdom to defend,  
From the encroaching fop.  
Yet now I'll tell how they were ta'en without a bait,  
Clowns they Conspire, Conspiring fetch a Rake,  
And with that Rustic Tool some hundreds take:  
Some large and overgrown,  
That long had lived yet died too soon,  
In such preposterous way,  
I never knew before, and Heaven grant I never may.  
I won't relate the several ways they're ta'en,  
By bobbing or by Pots, that's vain,  
But to my Theme of Angling keep,  
In Rivers or in Ponds that's deep,  
Nor shall the sundry ways disturb my sleep.  
Tho by the River many a Night have I  
Spent in Contemplating Heaven, and the Starry Canopy,  
And with the patience of an Amorous Maid,  
For my expected Joy I silent stayed,  
Down at the bottom there he constant lies,  
'Mong Mud and Flags and Roots of rotten Trees:  
Or at the sluices where the waters fall,  
Which stopped, o'er flow the Banks and Meads, and all  
The Neighbouring grounds below,  
If there he's missed then to the Bridges go.  
And near the posts that prop them up,  
His usual time is late at Night to sup,  
On what the stream into his way conveys,  
For Fishes dead become his constant preys;  
The darkest Nights, if those you choose,  
And such kind Angler, ne'er refuse,  
With Line that's strong, and strong your Rod,  
You'll hardly miss his dark abode,  
For Night's his everlasting time,  
From ten to twelve the only prime.  
Try first your worm if that wont do,  
A Pickle Herring soon will bring him too,  
Or little Fish, in them he'll much delight,  
And swallow all and hardly ever by't  
Amiss when hung, ne'er stand to give him play,  
For much he'll strive your Line for to convey,  
Among such stubs or roots in Rivers be,  
Then Angler you are lost by your simplicity,  
Which to prevent and so prevail,  
Rear up his head and Pendant be his Tail,  
Else he like Boys within a hoop,  
In Thousand Gambols will directly shoot,  
Spite of your Teeth he'll brake your strand or line,  
And rend his throat in pieces at that time.  
So slippery he'll glide between your hands and be,  
Like Gigas ring, Invisible and free;  
But roll him on the sand his strength is gone,  
And justly then you call him may your own.  
More ways I yet could show,  
How Eels are taken which full well I know,  
But I'll forbear, and only now relate,  
How they are taken without a line or bait;  
No Eele-Pots, nor no Nets, but Shovel and an Awl  
Creating Pleasure, if Pleasures be at all.  
Angler forbear to smile  
At what I now relate,  
Have Patience yet a while  
And I'll declare it straight.  
At Orpington some bubbling spouts there rise,  
No biger than the Pearls fall from our eyes,  
(When some dear Friend is lately dead and gone,  
At whose lamented obsequses we mourn)  
While Multiplying more; in little way  
They make a stream, that glides into the Sea.  
So shallow every stone is plainly told,  
Pactolus with her Glitring streams of Gold,  
Can't show such treasure, and what's more,  
there's Trout, and Eels a mighty store.  
But to the purpose, how these Eels are ta'en,  
Requires some time as well as pain.  
Through St. Mary Day, the stream gently glides,  
And runs by Foots-Cray and to North-Cray besides;  

* Major Bugings, at North-Cray.  Where the sport gins,  
When Heaven's so dark that nothing shines,  
But its black Canopy extending fair,  
Throws an Eternal Sable through the Air:  
Then from their watery Burroughs Eels resort,  
And leave the safety of the Liquid Court.  
Like Lovers, in the dark they are most kind,  
And sweetly meet, new blisses by Enjoying find.  
A Rustic with a Flambeau in his hand,  
Goes like a Page of Honour through the Strand,  
When Madam she's retiring from the Play to Court,  
Cloyed with vain repetitions and an Idle sport.  
Vain is that pleasure yields us no delight,  
But dulls our over clouded Appetite.  
Resume thy theme, the Flambeau glistering bright,  
The wandering Eels are dazzled at the light,  
And, like to Boys admiring, grow  
Bold at a Lord Mayor's Pageant show:  
They nearer draw, and still the glittering fire;  
As he walks up and down, applaud, admire,  
He warily knows how to pick and choose,  
And neatly can his skilful shovel use;  
For when the larger sort comes in his way,  
Down goes the shovel, and he's forced to stay  
Till with the Awl they him to Land convey.  
Now see sweet Maro, of the Perch I sing,  
And Dedicate to thee, who art the Muse's King,  
My solemn Theme;  
Assist me then,  
Recorder of the Acts of Gods and Men.  
Lest that my trembling Pen in vain essay,  
Ignis Fatuus-like, lost in uncertain way.  
Had I thy Genius, than my quill should raise,  
Immortal Glory to thy Name with praise.  
While thou, blessed Hero, to the Gods conjoined,  
And, by eternal Love, to Man Combined,  
shows us the Paths of virtue how to tread,  
And Magnify the Glory of the Dead.  
For thou alone  
Hast further gone,  
In thine Immortal lays,  
Then all the scribbling Poets in our last declining days,  
Choice is my Theme,  
The Vice Roy of the stream,  
That now I mean declare,  
And his abiding place,  
No Lofty Turrets do his Palace grace,  
Yet he delights in Silver streams most fair.  
A gentle current and a sandy ground,  
With curious Pebbles that abound,  
Are his Eternal way.  
For o'er the stream he ranges still,  
And, Glutton-like, his stomach seeks to fill;  
Then to a bush convey  
His Porcupine and bristly back,  
That with an Eager fierce attack,  
Whole shoals are forced to give him way.  
Sometimes in holes most deep,  
Like winking Cat, he'll seem asleep,  
Till some bold Minnow, or the smaller fry,  
Insult about him, then he'll quickly ply  
Against a Million all he will withstand,  
Till some poor Captive stays his furious hand,  
Remorseless, he ne'er fears, nor prays,  
But all he conquers, he as sudden slays;  
His Passion's hot, and seldom cool,  
Till taken with a Gin by some laborious fool:  
Yet, like a Turk, in all extremes looks high,  
Shakes his sharp Javelin, Blasphemes his God and dies.  

* Higham, and Stratford, by Denham.  In Suffolk there I know a stream,  
Where it gins I Ignorant am,  
But stored it is with spacious fry,  
Of different sorts; what there I've ta'en,  
Of those I'll sing, and let the rest remain  
Till some more Curious, with more skill than I,  
Their mighty numbers fairly can descry,  
And from what Fountain first,  
The fruitful waters burst,  
That daily pay a tribute to the Sea,  
Are Themes too high, and so unknown to me.  
But there kind Fortune once to me was kind,  
That, for one year, I nothing had to mind,  
But pleasure by that River side,  
Where still, with all my Heart, I willingly could abide:  
Such store it yields as I before ne'er knew,  
And daily did my Loved delights renew.  
For Angling from a Child I still do prize,  
The best of pleasures, for the grave and wise.  
Oh! Who can tell the store of Pikes are there?  
Twelve, Sixteen Pound of Fish, repays the Anglers care,  
If but one hour or two he well can spare;  
And all the bait he needeth for't,  
Is but a Gudgeon, of the largest sort,  
Or else a Roach, fixed to the Trolling Line,  
With observation of his feeding time.  
I have admired to see, though hooks were double.  
The Trouler please himself with needless Trouble,  
A mighty Pole, Line like a Cable Rope  
For strength, yet lose his prize and hope;  
They were no Artists, little skill they had,  
Saving to Curse and Swear, like Bedlams, mad  
When a stout Pike from their rude hands made way,  
And joyful glides along the stream to play;  
The Proverb is forgot, no Anglers ought to swear,  
The least of Oaths the Fishes soon will scare,  
And Imprecations too make them the bait forbear,  
But I forget my Theme, my Angling for the Perch,  
And slight the Gudgeon, Chubb, the Bream and Roach:  
Supplies the stream with new recruits each hour;  
For there's such plenty, Heaven's Eternal Power,  
For every Evening all the Summer long,  
I don't remember I went empty home,  
And still spent but few hours at a time,  
From Three, till Six, I found the only prime,  
For in that Summer, a Thousand Perch, and more;  
I had destroyed, and might as many more;  
All with a Hook and Line,  
I used no Poaching way,  
Nor any thing that was unjust the Fishes to decoy;  
Besides good store of Roach, and some of Bream,  
And other Fish inhabit in the stream,  
But still the Perch was best,  
And always him I sought most to molest.  
When Rustic People they have any time,  
To Fishing straight they go,  
And hardly either Sup or Dine,  
Without a brace or two.  
But to observe these Rustics Tools,  
The World might well pronounce them Fools,  
Nay Fools in Grain, but still such luck most have,  
As Fortune sends to those are Mad or Brave.  
For with a Hook tied to a Pack-thread Line,  
They'll take you, some times, twenty at a time;  
Their Rod, a Goad, or some such foolish thing,  
A sit Companion for their home spun string,  
Their bait, a worm that's large, in sunder Torn,  
For little things these kind wise Acres Scorn,  
They'd never Angle in the middle of the stream,  
But near the Bank, 'mong bushes most extreme,  
And if the bushes hung them in their play,  
Their Line was strong to bring them still away,  
I oft have been Amazed to see  
The very Boys grow wise,  
At their Old Father's great simplicity.  
One evening, Sol declining grown,  
My Tools packed up, and I returning home,  
I chanced in shallow water spy  
A Lusty well grown Jack to lie,  
So steady that you'd think  
Him Dead to float so near the brink;  
I viewed him long, and wondered much to see  
He'd make no motion, at my shade, nor me;  
And, by ill Fortune, at that time  
I had no Troul nor Trolling Line;  
He lay too far for me to snare,  
And I had none but Lines were made of hair,  
Yet was resolved to have some sport,  
With that stout Tyrant of the Liquid Court;  
A Roach alive I fixed, to bear  
Upon a Line, and drew it near,  
His mighty and expanded Jaws,  
Like Hell's wide mouth, immediately disclose  
Whole rows of Teeth, as Cadmus' earth born Sons  
Each other view,  
Then furious slew,  
As from the ground they sprung by turns.  
Lord how I wondered, when the Roach went in  
That yawning Gulf, and could no further swim:  
That dark Abbiss  
His last recess  
Was the Eternal end of him.  
Fain would I more have seen and known,  
For observation seldom comes too soon;  
But he, Tyrantlike, showed me the Tyrant's play,  
Turned his large head, and with the stream slid quite a way.  
Angler don't think I Equivocate or lie,  
The truth I hear declare and the whole mystery,  
For with a Worm, or else a Minnow small,  
Those Fifteen Hundred Perch I took them all.  
Cloyed with my pleasure, still my cares renew,  
And Angling, all my Joys, I daily still pursue  
Till Winter came, and Boreu's stubborn wind,  
With flakes of Snow and Ice, the earth and water joined,  
Like Twins, that from one womb though both proceed,  
Have different virtues at their different need.  
For when the River's froze as hard as stone,  
And all the Fishes, there Imprisoned, mourn;  
Another game I used to find,  
Where Duck and Mallard multiplied their kind  
And since my sport of Angling was debarred,  
Something I'd have, or else I thought it hard;  
One Element just turned to stone,  
If that the other could afford me none:  
Three tedious Months of Winter weather,  
All sorts of Wild Fowl Heaven sent me thither,  
I ne'er Examined whence they came, nor going whether;  
For if in sixty yards, or little more,  
Whether in the Air, or on the shore,  
I little cared, all one it was to me,  
If with advantage than I could deliver free.  
Some scores of Wild Fowl there I fairly shot,  
Some for the Spit, and some were for the Pot;  
Of some I presents made unto my Friends,  
No Nigards mind, nor Misers wish on me Attends.  
Angler had you been there you'd fared as well as I,  
For Heaven's bounty, Heaven be praised Eternally.  
Now the Eager and voracious Chubb rehearse,  
That mounts the water, sees the universe,  
Then to the bottom nimbly scuds,  
And hides his daring head beneath the floods,  
Till some new object makes him rise,  
A Hopper or some larger fly's,  
Then nimbly down he'll dive, and with his prey,  
Obscure himself from Sol's most Glorious ray,  
Under a shady Oak,  
His motions common look,  
For there he'll rise and fall,  
As often as convenient Beauties call;  
If shadows do approach him, then he's shy,  
And shuns the Alterations of the sky,  
But when Serene and Calm, in Rivers large,  
He joyfully exerts his force, and charge  
Battalions of the Buzzing Excrements,  
On whom his spiteful Choler daily vents  
A fresh revenge;  
Till with a cunning hand, and baited hook,  
His pride strikes Sail, as being soon mistake,  
So greedy Wolves who after Midnight range,  
Fall in a Pitfall and their lives exchange.  
Vain Pride by accidental chances come  
Unto a Period, and the everlasting Sun  
Climb's higher still, till Climbing throws him down,  
And in a Sable Vails the Immortal Crown  
Of Light,  
But to my Theme,  
The Chubb's are then  
Eternal Gormandizers;  
A Gentle or a Worm, sometimes he'll take,  
And seldom e'er refuse the bait,  
Of verdant singing Hoppers,  
And other things; but from his sight stand clear,  
For sure he sees, and Fishes well can hear,  
For sight, or noise,  
Are no decoys,  
In Chrystial streams,  
The very stirring of a bush,  
Makes all your Art not worth a rush,  
And so deludes your pains:  
Which to prevent, act by judicious care,  
Observe the wind, and how you best may bear  
The floating fly,  
In places nigh  
His haunts, for shady shelters his delight,  
And near the ground sometimes he'll freely by't,  
A Cadice then, or Worm that's red,  
Like the voluptuous, brings him to a dying bed:  
Excess is hurtful none admire,  
Those Damps extinguish natural fire  
Who covet all, but little can Enjoy,  
And much, to some's, esteemed the meanest toy.  
Alexander conquered all, yet sighing weeped.  
Saladines' victories ended in a shirt.  
Angler, strong Tackling have, for he is strong,  
If only for the Chubb your Madam's long,  
Be careful, never trust the single hair,  
For that's deceitful, and frustrates your care.  

* At Heaver castle, in the Meadow.  I Angling lately, for the smaller fry,  
Two hairs my hook did only tie,  
And those two hairs, two score had ta'en,  
Till one stout Chubb deludes my pain;  
I Angled not for him, yet him I did provoke,  
He sudden rose and with a Cruel stroke,  
The easy hair gave way,  
While he Triumphs, as Conqueror that day;  
It was so sudden, that I scarcely knew,  
Whether he risen or from the Clouds he flew,  
Like Perseus on his winged Mare,  
To bring relief, or Combat in the Air,  
That Monster of the great Eternal Seas,  
Who Andromeda ready was to seize.  
But once by chance in water clear,  
The Brook was narrow, and I near,  
Close by the Bank a Chubb I eyed,  
And wonder how I came so near unspyed,  
His Argus eyes, or that he sleeping lay,  
To let me silent in his way convey  
My bait, which quickly there he spies,  
And like a Treasure, all his own he cries,  
Voracious Natures seldom ever can,  
Revoke the principles at first began  
Instilling Craft, but yet the crafty falls  
Like Cobblers using Swords instead of Awls.  
For by a Touch I hooked him, then  
Blaspheming dies, like to despairing Men.  
Now comes the Roach, against the stream he'll swim,  
And beat the waters with his ruby fin,  
Him you may know, if River's never so deep,  
For, when he bites, the float will downwards creep,  
Perpendicular to the deep Abyss,  
If well he's hung, you'll hardly ever miss;  
If Large, a little play requires your skill,  
And always keep his head above the water still,  
Till strength is spent, then bring him to th● shore  
And always Angle middle deep or more,  
For he's not nice, a Gentle, Cadice or a Worm,  
Or, on the top, a fly will serve his turn,  
An't flies are best, for these he'll eager chase,  
Besides they be a Sovereign bait for Dace;  
Our stream affords us none, but I know where  
They do abound, and have been Angling there,  

* In Cheshire.  At Satbleford, not far from Holy Dee,  
A stream abounds, and that most Infinitely,  
Dace are choice, few other Fish are there,  
Except some Trout, but they're not large nor fair,  
Not like unto our Kentish Trout, these I express  
Are only good and far unto excess.  

† Dalamore Forest, in Cheshire.  In Dalamore's, a silent Mere,  
Good store of Bream increases there;  
Broad sides and little mouths, do ill agree,  
Tho he's in biting commonly free.  
Oh! Should you see a large one, how he'll play,  
And with his Tail, beat all the waves away,  
Scorning so small a hook, and little line,  
Should Antedate him in his flowing prime.  
Angler, if you go there, have Tackling strong,  
No Hook, nor Line, you must rely upon.  
When near the shore, but with a Net him lift,  
Else his large sides will put him soon a drift.  
Muse sing yet and tell the Roach,  
What other bait he will approach,  
And let the Bream and Dace alone,  
Since our sweet stream affords us none.  
Among the Flags, if any little place is clear,  
Or gloomy shades, I common find them there;  
Sometimes they're shy,  
Scarce one will die,  
No Worm nor Gentle can them please,  
No Paste or Cadice then agrees;  
Yet they'll come near, and smell,  
Then turn their Tails, and bid them all farewell.  
What shall I do, no sport I'm like to have,  
But drudge all day, yet Fortune helps the brave.  
Soon from the River then withdraw,  
Unto some Farm, and turn the rotten straw.  
For Worms, a Ruby head and body white,  
Are certain signs the Roach at them will by't,  
Get but a few, you need no more to fear,  
But you'll have sport if any Roach are there,  
I seldom find them at this bait precise;  
And some I've ta'en with other Fishes eyes.  
One time my baits were spent,  
I thoughtful was for more,  
When Fortune favoured my Intent,  
And soon supplied my store;  
A sudden fancy in my Noddle came,  
Which I resolved then to try,  
Do you but make experience of the same,  
You may succeed as well as I,  
The Glaring Oculus, great Loves mysterious bait,  
That leads the World in error, Topsy turns a state,  
Which Monarch's more adore, and brighter shines,  
Then all the Glittering stones adorn their Diadems:  
This was my fancy, and I well may say,  
Eyes were my Guide the Fishes to betray,  
For some I took, Jove pardon my Intent,  
To make the blind decoy the Innocent;  
Wonder no more, 'tis certain true and just,  
Necessity begot Invention first.   

Next sing the Gudgeon, where he most abides,  
The bait he loves, and where he usually resides;  
A stream that's clear, and current pretty strong,  
With Sand, or Gravel, will detain him long.  
Close at the bottom, there he grabling lies,  
And never looks at Heaven, nor sees the Skies,  
Till by a Bradling, on the Sun he glares,  
And ends his life without protesting cares;  
No Scriviner makes his will, 'tis known to all  
That commonly the weakest goes to th' wall.  
Directly ' 'gainst the stream he bears his head,  
Stones are his Pillow, Sand his Down'y Bed;  
And Company he loves, for seldom he's alone:  
Paternal cares belong to every one.  
Angler, if you his haunts would know,  
Observe the stream, and how the Currents go,  
In gentle numbers, or most rapid flow,  
The gentle still belongs unto your care,  
For there they'll swarm, and recompense you fair,  
If but one Inch, or rather on the ground,  
Your Bradling tail, as you the water sound;  
For he'll ne'er rise, try all the Art you can,  
To take a bait that's from the ground a span.  
A Bradling, that's his chiefest Love,  
A Gentle, sometimes will him move.  
So will the Straw-worm, from his house drawn clear,  
Show you the pleasure that in Rivers are.  
Apliant Rod,  
No sturdy Goad,  
That Rustic People use,  
Gives more delight,  
When Gudgeons by't,  
Then all their vain Ostentious shows.  
A Hook that's fine,  
And Taper Line,  
Two or three hairs below,  
May well suffice,  
Unto the wise,  
When they to Angling go.  
No mighty skill for them you need expend,  
If baits be good on those they will attend;  
Increase your sport, and by a fresh desire,  
Invite you further on, and then aspire  
To be complete; who so for Gudgeons Angle,  
Do oftentimes the best of Fish entangle;  
Both Chubb and Roach, the Perch and slimy Eel  
Insensible, unto a worm will steal,  
And raise your Expectation to a higher pitch  
Than floating fry, the vulgar so bewitch.  
But let your baits be always pure and sweet,  
And all your Tackling of the best complete,  
Else falls the Proverb to your luck, and then,  
Of mighty Artists, prove but simple Men.   

Muse keep thy Theme, and sing what other Fish  
Completes an Angler to his Roving wish;  
And tell those sorts that in our streams there be,  
For to repay our cost and pains with usury.  
In weather hot, whole shoals are found,  
That leave the bottom, and the top surround,  
Of silver Bleaks, whose verdant backs  
Like Emeralds shine, or finer knacks;  
Bleaks of a larger size than those the Thames,  
Can boast in all her Royal streams:  
Quite different in taste, the shape is one,  
Luxurious far beyond the Gudgeon,  
That River Smelts, do with these Bleaks oppose,  
Let sense direct you which of them to choose.  
A little hook, one single hair and fly,  
Are best on top, where Bleaks all open lie,  
Drive with the stream,  
And shaded be from them.  
Else soon they'll scud and hid themselves away,  
And tedious make the pleasures of the day.  
Which to prevent, obsconded be, and then  
You ne'er can fail to take enough of them.  
The prey is small,  
But that's not all  
An Angler should respect;  
His ways sublime  
Exceeding time,  
Much further can direct.  
Bleaks greedy are,  
And to the flies declare  
A hatred ends in mortal strife,  
Which Belzebub their God resents,  
And thus exclaiming, soon his passion vents  
Unto his Hell beloved Wife.  
' My Kingdom will depopulated be,  
' My subjects sent abroad, return no more to me,  
' Some newer state I thought might them oppose,  
' Which they resisting came to handy blows,  
' Fortune of Wars on Soldier often fall,  
' And Honoured Cripples are commanders all;  
' But in my Regiments there's none I see,  
' That wants a Leg or Arm, but all are free,  
' Free in their Limbs in Action stout,  
' But few return when they march out,  
' Some Ambush sure wherein they fall and die;  
' For Cannibals ne'er breakfast on a fly.  
Thus he—  
But when Intelligence was brought,  
Of numerous squadrons lately gone from Court,  
And none returned, except some foreign shore  
Gave harbour, they're exiled for ever more,  
Wonder of Wonders, where the Buzzing Tribe  
Should still abscond prepetually, and hid  
Their Airy Wings, or should Boreus he  
Employ them on Plantations to a mystery,  
None knows, but straight a Counsel urgent call,  
And give rewards to those declare it shall,  
And pardon too if they accomplice are,  
Against the winged Buzzers of the Air.  
This an old Hornet heard, who in a hollow tree  
Rested secure, and so preserved his Liberty,  
Just on the River's bank, for their he could descry  
Who 'twas prevailed, and who destroyed the rambling fly.  
Profound obeisance to the winged God once made,  
And Prostrate at his footstool, sighing said;  
' Dread Liege, no hopes of Honours, no reward I crave,  
' By Duty bound, as your most humble slave,  
' I here with sorrow can this loss declare,  
' That makes your vast dominions now so bare;  
' Last Night the offspring of my Aged years,  
' Would bathe in streams, expelling future cares,  
' And in the Liquid Element, would play,  
 ease the burden of the Ensuing day:  
' Dubious what chance my Heirs might soon betid,  
' Upon a bough I parched, and there espied,  
' How in the waters, like Icarus in the Air,  
' They had forgot the Precept of a Parent dear,  
' They stretch their Wings, and spoon afore the wind,  
' My  first, and so the rest behind,  
' Try all the pleasures of the Silver stream,  
' With Sails Expanded, danger far from them  
' In all appearance, while they joyful play,  
' And silent hours decoy the time away.  
' Puffed with conceit, they'd see the Nymphs below,  
' And how the Gods keeped Court in Caves, and so  
' Down to the bottom nimbly dive, and then  
' Rise and disport themselves with Joys again:  
' While in my tender Breast paternal fears arose,  
' That sudden Joys have direful ends, which to oppose  
' I loudly call, and bid bold Hornet stay,  
' While he forgetful, with the stream kept way,  
' And quickly sport's his precious life away.  
' Two streams there be, from several parts that come,  
' Then with united forces join in one;  
' Under a broad and spreading Tree,  
' Tree alas, and here gins my misery,  
' For like some Pirate in a hollow clif,  
' That waits the careless Merchant when a drift,  
' And with full Sails makes to the longed shore,  
' There to unlade, or else to fraught him more;  
' Steps boldly forth, and with a fierce surprise  
' Makes the full Vessel than his lawless prize.  
' So unobserved, by the shady tree  
' Some Ch●bs expecting lay, a prize to see,  
' While my bold Boys, not dreading danger nigh,  
' Fall in a Gulf, and there expiring die.  
When this he'd said, his Aged hair he tore,  
Excessive sorrow stopped his speech for more.  
While Belzebub, new comforts to infuse,  
Strives to expel his grief, and clearly shows  
His thoughts are free, and solemn doth profess  
The watery Element destroys his happiness.  
When to remoter climes, the aspiring flies  
In Number's swarm, and there surprised dies,  
Which to prevent, the Counsel all agree,  
To supplicate great Neptun's Majesty,  
And by address the Sea-green-God implore,  
To issue orders to his subjects, o'er  
The Liquid Element, no more for to surprise,  
When travelling, spontanious buzzing flies.  
This then resolved, the Court a Courier sent,  
With Lady Birds, the Queen of Hell's present,  
That Neptune may, if so his Godhead please,  
Starve all his Fish, and please himself with these.  
Such presents from the God of flies was rare,  
Each fawning Courtier sought one for his share.  
When one bold Bleak, more sturdy than the rest,  
Demanding Audience, thus himself expressed.  
' Hail mighty Neptune, by thy trident I  
' Dare swear, though Jove himself were by,  
' That these fine Lady Birds, enchanting eyes,  
' The bane of subjects are but mere decoys,  
' And to that purpose sent, while we,  
' For gaudy outsides, are condemned to be  
' Eternal poor, and slaves to misery;  
Our Charters broke, and for a Female smile,  
' Expelled the Limits of our Bounteous Isle;  
' This Law, ' 'gainst reason, Mighty King revoke,  
' And add no more oppressions to our Yoke  
' Whick heavy is already, so that we  
' Expire at once debarred of Liberty.  
' Beside, Intruding buzzers, that invade  
' Your Liquid Kingdom, makes us still afraid  
' They are but spies, and seek to undermine,  
' Like Faux, your whole Prerogative and Line.  
This said, an universial shout attends  
The joint applause of faithful loving friends,  
While Lady Birds, and Courier home were sent,  
And Fishes still Enjoy their own content.  
Angler if you besides the fly,  
Would other ways or notions try,  
Then use a Gentle, when they do abscond  
About six foot or more from Land;  
Or near the middle, nigh the shore is none  
The Sun they Love, and Angle most 'bout noon.  
For I've observed, when that gins decline,  
Your Angling then is only loss of time.  
Besides the Gentle and the Fly,  
The Roaches bait I'd wish you try,  
And let experience tell you then,  
Vain Glory ne'er becomes a Fisherman.  
How often on a lofty bridge 've stood,  
Whose Arches stopped the raging flood.  
When Sun was hot, the water most serene,  
And all the fry therein most plainly seen,  
While I, absconded by that Lofty height,  
Exceeding pleasure reaped, and pure delight:  
For while my Flies, drove gently with the stream,  
The mounting Bleaks would still admire at them,  
Then with a sudden spring, new Joys to try,  
They fall a victim, and lamenting die.  
Sing next the trouble of the Angling Rod,  
The little Menow, and his blind abode,  
That enemy to Angling, when he bites  
Destroys our baits, and robs our chief delights,  
How to avoid him well we can not tell,  
In every place in every hole he'll dwell.  
Confounded Caitif, who can him avoid  
If near the ground, except a Load  
Of worms adorn your hook, yet then  
He'll nible and do all that e'er he can  
To raise your Passion, yet you must not swear,  
For frighting other Fishes that are near.  
All baits he loves, and nothing will deny  
His Appetite, except it be the Fly,  
And that must on the water swim, if low,  
'Tis certain gone as other baits I know.  
So little curs a Mastiff will engage,  
And, by eternal bawling, make him rage,  
Who quiet was before, and that until  
Great Madam Spot, thought 'twas exceeding well  
Her dainty dandlelap, such courage had,  
To dare a Mastiff till he's mad.  
These Menows dare, and often daring die,  
Ignoble Sots deserve no obsequy,  
Nor Pity, when most wilfully they fall,  
Ambitiously aspiring unto all.  
For I have known when Menows had,  
By often sucking, made them glad,  
And left the hook near bare,  
Without all further care;  
By one small jerk the hook has been  
Fixed in their Bellies, or their fin,  
Too late then they, like Drunken Fools, design  
A quick reform from the entoxicating Vine.  
While the silent wound,  
To the heart has found  
A new Invented way,  
Transporting Joys,  
The only Toys,  
Of Life's uncertain stay.  
Angler, bestow some pains, direct my Pen  
How to avoid these Plagues which then  
Requires our chiefest skill and all our care,  
To make our Recreation supreme fair.  
I'm at a loss,  
And do profess,  
The more I think, the further off am I,  
How to avoid the Inconvenience of these fry;  
Unless I should confine myself to holes are deep,  
Or where the boisterous stream doth sweep  
The ground with raging force, for there  
They seldom be, and leave our Angling fair;  
But I to no such task can be confined  
While always plodding by the stream, I mind  
Their several Meanders, and the ways  
To use my various baits, in various Plays.  
Sometimes I'm tired, and leave my Angle for my Troul,  
With that I strive some other Fishes to Cajole  
Or make my Enemy to serve my turn,  
When at a turning stream the Perches come,  
And there Insulting lie for Menow or else Worm;  
Either will serve if you observe the Rules,  
No edged Weapons fits the hand of Fools,  
But silent wait, and with expecting care,  
A Menow soon decoys the best are there,  
Himself is good for nought, but by Judicious strife,  
Gives greater pleasure to the Patiented Anglers Life.  
Life free from cares, and those Tumultuous Toys  
That sorrow brings, the bane of Mortal Joys;  
Eternal enemy to rest and sweet repose;  
The Angler may be studious thoughts oppose.  
Refreshment from the Meadows sweet,  
The Silver streams afford him meat.  
What greater Treasure to a friend who'd bring,  
Then those which from our labour daily spring,  
Labour in vain, the Ingenious do not prize,  
Pleasure, that profit brings, becomes the wise.   
FINIS.   

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN Piscator and Corydon.  Corydon. 

IF Man immortal be, whose reason's most Divine,  
'Tis you must needs Excel, by using well your time.  
No sooner can the Glorious Sun retire  
From Thetis lap, and with his Beams inspire,  
New vigour to the long expecting World,  
When sable Night hath all his Clouds close furled,  
But you to view Aurora's blushing Face,  
In duteous manner o'er the Meadows trace,  
And with your Angling Rod, or Trolling Pole,  
Search all the streams, and there the Fish Cajole.   Piscator. 

'Tis you that see the Glories of the Sun,  
How he gins his course, and setting down,  
How in the Sea he waters his swift steeds,  
And cools their fiery mouths in Seagreen beds,  
Refreshments, Gods and Men, when tired, love  
And in Recesses there sweetly Improve,  
While Love with his expanded Charms provokes  
The Amorous Doves, whom Venus kindly Yokes,  
And with most Celebrated speed then flies,  
To Paphos to the Morning Sacrifice.   Corydon. 

No sooner can Aurora's golden face disclose,  
And Living Clocks tell Night's gone to repose,  
But I my Sheep and Lambs most careful view,  
And from full udders then extract the dew,  
Due to great Pan, and of my kine take care,  
The joyful Issue of their Mother's fair;  
But what Redounds from your Elaborat care and skill,  
Declare, for I expect it, with Impatience still.   Piscator. 

I view the Meads, and see how Flora's Love  
Not given in vain, and Mortal's still Improve  
By spacious Landscapes, to our nicer eyes,  
The true Contentments slugards seldom prize,  
Who spends three parts of Linger life in sleep,  
Then rise to dine and sup, again to creep  
Between the sheets, with drowsy dreams there lie,  
Like Morpheus in his latest Agony.   Corydon. 

But yet declare the pleasure that you reap,  
Among the streams are swift, and wide, and deep,  
For I've observed, that there you're most an end.  
Piscator, pray now tell unto thy friend,  
Thy long experience, I'll with Joy attend,  
From your Diviner Counsel all you know,  
Be speedy, while we trace this Meadow throw,  
For at the Old Boundary, there we part,  
I to my Kine, and you unto your Art.   Piscator. 

Corydon, if for this time, your time you can enlarge  
The morning's fair, and let your Hind take charge  
For once, of your fat Herd, the Rivers nigh,  
Where I'll demonstrate the pleasure I Enjoy.  
By ocular inspection you shall see,  
If Angling be ned a part of Heaven's Divinity.  
While we with patience here, and with pure minds,  
Reap the contentment Heaven to Man Enjoins.  
Observe the streams and see them filent go,  
How on the banks a thousand beauties grow,  
The wise Creator did, in mighty Love bestow  
On Man, and, by a Providential care,  
Stocked all the waters with the Fish are there,  
Who multiply, and therein largely breed,  
To give us Joy, and serve us at our need.  
Tho 'tis confessed your stock and care extends  
The Limits, unto which my study bends.   Corydon. 

Great is my care, and great my Labours be,  
Confined to be a drudge eternally:  
Yet use and daily labour brings me gain.  
When Udders overflow with milk amain,  
Free from contentions and domestic strife,  
The Eternal jaring of a Crabtree life.  
See yond stout Bullock with his neck new worn,  
Whose fellows blow the ground for plenteous Corn,  
Which Ceres, as a mighty blessing, sends,  
She hath my Love; to Pan my offering bends,  
Father of Shepherds, we thy Rustics are  
As well as Flocks, thy everlasting care;  
In rural numbers we thy praise rehearse,  
And pay our Obligations in Immortal verse;  
No fluent strains but such as Nature gave,  
Plain as our Souls, but always just and brave.  
When Amarillis, Phillis, Cloris join  
And make consorting Harmony Divine.   Piscator. 

No knowledge in the Husbandman's affairs,  
Belong unto my Art, nor all his Teeming cares  
Know I, nor please myself to see the Oxen Blow,  
And Labouring through the new made furrows go.  
The painful Harrow gives me no delight,  
Nor can I comprehend how one short night,  
Can give due rest, or yield a sweet repose  
To toilsome swains, that with the Sun still goes,  
From one care to another, Reaper's always sweat,  
And Ceres bounty yields them labours, yet  
Full Barns are threshed, the winnowed wheat appears,  
Which gives both Joy and Trouble to succeeding years,  
If my advice in Friendly manner, can obtain  
But your attention, while my observations plain  
How you some hours of tedious life may ease,  
Control your cares and sweetly rest in peace.   Corydon. 

Thy Friendship I still own, if fates were free  
I willing would obtain and learn thy mystery;  
But cares still cloud my over willing mind,  
Sprung from the Earth, there's all the Joy I find.   Piscator. 

Ne'er mind the Earth, to Heaven lift your eyes,  
All blessings come from supreme Deities.  
Those griping Misers, that the Muck adore,  
Are always empty, and in plenty poor.   Corydon. 

Earth is my business, and a soil that's rich,  
Gives me contentment; Jove I still beseech  
That all my Teeming Ewes may fruitful be,  
And Crown my Labours with their large posterity,  
So may my Darie daily still abound,  
With plenteous blessings from my Heifers sound.  
'Tis all I covet, Miser's Gold admire  
The only Loadstone to a fond desire.   Piscator. 

Croesus, and Midas, Gold could ne'er content,  
Engraven Ingots, all the Gods they meant,  
But baubles, to the Golden glistering o'er  
That Damned their Souls, yet died exceeding poor.  
Corydon, if you'll but gratify me half this day,  
I will repay your kindness when you turn your Hay,  
Feign would I now Spectator you should be,  
If I han't reason to be kind and free.  
Almighty Nature bounteous blessing sends,  
Which I in Love impart unto my friends,  
Who still partake, with Liberal hand I strive  
Their Loves to keep, Eternal Love survive.  
What greater Treasure can I else bestow,  
Then that from my assiduous pleasures flow,  
The River's near, give your attention then,  
I'll show you all the beauties of the stream.  
Under that shady Oak obscure there lie  
For Gods themselves are private at their mystery.   Corydon. 

Piscator, I'll obey; You Powers Divine,  
Pardon if I misspend my precious time.  
Ah, no! I'll contemplate of Heaven and every thing,  
Great Pan, good notions to my mind now bring  
While here I stay, and with Industrious care  
Behold Piscator, what his motions are,  
For knowledge none in his sweet art I have,  
Such studies only fit the just and brave;  
Who with attention and with patience strange  
Hunt through the Liquid Element, and change  
Their several Chases, as their observations vary,  
Profound in knowledge seldom can miscarry.  
So Herdsman go, a double care extend,  
While I this day Piscator do attend.   Piscator. 

Propitious fortune bless my floating quill,  
By which, observing how the Fishes still  
Nible the bait, then greedy swallow all,  
As dying Victims, triumph in their fall,  
That Corydon may see the difference and find,  
That pleasure soon expels the troubles of the mind,  
Immortal Jove, tired with the labours of the day  
Withdraws, and to new pleasures finds the way.   Corydon. 

Piscator does your eager haste succeed,  
Or, will your pains supply your present need,  
The Sun is mounted high, and soon will fall,  
But what repast have you for me, or all,  
'Slight is your store, your Meager looks denys,  
But that your Belly wants its due supplies.  
'Tis time, for Nature still refreshment claims,  
And hunger still succeeds most pleasing pains.   Piscator. 

I have enough for to supply your wish,  
And here in Love I do present a Dish:  
To save the late expense of your lost time,  
Such Fish as now are only in their prime;  
A Brace of Jacks, some Chubbs, and more  
Three Lusty Perch I lately brought ashore,  
Not naming those of the Ignoble fry,  
That greedy swallow and as sudden dye,  
Three Dozen, more or less I'm sure, I've ta'en,  
A sweet requital for so small a pain;  
Get but a friend or two, and of your store  
We'll banquet then this Night, and often more,  
Since Neighbours like, in Love we both agree,  
We'll Celebrate great Pan, and Neptune's liberality.   Corydon 

Now I'm convinced Piscator's art's sublime,  
He profit reaps by his expense of time.  
By harmless pleasure, yet he always may  
Contemplate the Eternal bounty of the day;  
Which gives such Inclinations all Divine,  
Without the Hazard of more precious time,  
For while he Angles, serious there he may  
Consider life, and life's uncertain way,  
By fleeting time that never yet would stay.  
Some friends I have at need, and those  
Shall sup with us, if nothing do oppose,  
Whose hearts are Cheery, and my home-made Wine  
Shall mount their Souls more lofty than the Vine.  
Great Bacchus' darling, Pomona's joys are more  
Than all the Grapes Insipped Fools adore.  
Command my House, one hour I crave to be  
Among my kine, and other drudgery,  
The Master's eye, make all the Horses fat,  
Is the old Proverb, still remember that.   Piscator. 

Well, I'll be Cook, against your quick return,  
But bring your friends, for whom I inward mourn,  
Lest some dull chance should keep them yet away,  
Like tedious Prologue to a duller play.  
Be quick dear Corydon, make haste be sure,  
Impatience hardly will admit a cure.   Corydon. 

See I have made a quick return, and brought  
Those friends who scorn to have an Idle thought,  
True friends they be, and such are only rare  
Whose well bred souls, them Noble can declare.  
Now here's a Rummer to my friends and you;  
Dear hearts be jovial, sorrow did adieu.  
Piscator's Fish, joined with my home-made Wine,  
Instills new vigour to our fleeting time.  
Time's still in haste, old Time for none will tarry,  
But we'll deceive him once, whilst hearts are merry,  
See here's a brimmer to our Royal King,  
Success attend him, and let every thing  
Joy in his welfare, prosperity still be  
Upon our Sovereign, and his dignity.   Piscator. 

Now call your Cloris, and your Phillis, she  
That Sings so well, and makes such Harmony,  
Let's hear those lays, are due to your great Pan,  
The God of Shepherds, and the Husbandman;  
But Sing in parts and let them both declare  
The Joys that are in Rustical affair.   Corydon. 

Phillis, Cloris, tune your Pipes, and let us hear,  
Your melody can soon digest our cheer;  
Take turns to warble forth some pleasing strain,  
For to delight my friends, who don't disdain  
To hear ken to, and then applaud your choice,  
Both of the subject, and your sweeter voice.   


SONG.  
Phill. THen Midnight Ghosts sink to the shades below,  
Affrighted, when the Cocks begin to Crow,  
And tell the day appears,  
No longer they must stay,  
But Instant pack away  
Unto Infernal spheres.  
Then mortals wake and free from cares  
Enjoy the Day, expelling fears,  
The Lamp of Heaven the Sun  
Sends forth his glorious light,  
And bids adieu to dismal night,  
Our labour's then begun,  
A morning Hymn, and to the Fields away,  
We Dairy Maidens have no time for play,  
Love and his Idle hours  
Neglected always be,  
That grand simplicity  
No pastime is of ours,  
But Joys supreme, in udders full we find;  
The blessings of our Kine, we only mind,  
Whose overflowing Veins  
Give Nectar at our fire,  
That Gods and Men admire  
Our Happiness and Pains.   

SONG.  
Cloris. Great Pan, to thee we all oblations pay  
Father of Gods and Men, to thee we pray.  
No Wolves offend our fold while we  
Are absent at our Husbandry,  
Still may our bleating sheep, bring tender Lambs  
And mighty Fleeces from our Ewes and Rams,  
Thou art their Father, with Paternal care  
Protect them and their offspring fair.  
While Ceres' bounty daily we attend,  
Let thy all seeing eye, so far extend,  
In Loving rays upon our Flocks,  
Preserve and keep their dew'y looks.  
Which we in stormy weather gently cull,  
Then Card and Twist the glorious silver Wool,  
The Weavers art, our want supplies,  
Beyond the Ruby Tinctured Dies.  
Homeborn our Souls, and so our lives we lead,  
We know no Cities, nor the Courtly breed,  
Nor ne'er desire they should prevail,  
Over the Duties to the Milking Pail.    
Corydon. 

Piscator, your turn's next, I pray you Sing,  
Your Angling pastime, or the Fishes King.  
What Kings they have, or what you please belong  
To Angling, make the burden of your Song.  
But first to clear your Pipes we'll drink,  
No time is lost in that I justly think.  
Propitious Bacchus, great Inventor of the Vine,  
This Ruminer's to thy health, and to the sisters Nine,  
Immortal lays attend them, and the Laurel thee,  
For Love and Wine gives life to Poetry.    

SONG.  

Piscator. WHen first the Harbinger to day,  
Tell's Sol 's approaching, and a ray  
Darts from the shining East.  
Then from my Bed, I hasty fly;  
No fish will come a slugard nigh,  
By twenty foot at least.  
My Tools got ready over Night,  
I know the hours when they will by't,  
And when they won't be free,  
Lose not the most expected prime,  
But take the most convenient time  
When Storms and Clouds none be,  
When boisterous Winds in Caves are penned,  
Zephyrus breezes only vent,  
Then I begin to Troul,  
For hasty Pike, or greedy Jack,  
Of which I seldom use to lack,  
And Love them with my Soul.  
Sol, if his Morning Beams prove fair,  
With Glorious Skies, serene the Air,  
To Angling then I go.  
For Trout, or Perch, for Roach, or Bleak,  
But Chubb's I seldom use to seek,  
And for some reasons know.  
They eager be to cast themselves away,  
Before declines the short lived day,  
If there appears a fly  
On waters calm, though ne'er so deep,  
Without a Ladder, up he'll creep,  
And Gorge it Instantly.  
Neptune, Commander of the Seas,  
Thy Queen and Loving Neriades,  
That daily we adore,  
Propitious to our pastimes be,  
All Anglers Love thy Deity,  
And will for evermore.  
Tho' we thy Fishes do decoy,  
And therein place a supreme Joy,  
With Hooks and Lines.  
Yet we no Poachers can abide,  
That scorn thy Majesty, beside  
And with Ignoble crimes  
Thy subjects in unlawful Nets,  
Destroy, and afterward abets,  
For to deface thy Throne.  
Rouse Mighty Monarch of the Seas,  
And let thy trident, if thou please  
Confound them every one.  
That so we Anglers daily may,  
Find store of Game, and freer play,  
While with attentive eyes,  
We mind our floating quill, for then  
What Victims fall by Angling Men  
We to thee Sacrifice.    
Corydon. 

Call Hobb our Boy and you shall hear him Sing  
A Ballet which from Town, he late did bring,  
Composed of Kniting, and the sweet delight,  
That Ladies do Enjoy, each morn and night,  
While busied thoughts, from Love sequestered be,  
And all admire their own Felicity.    

SONG.  

Hobb. HOW pleasant are we,  
In joys that are free,  
Since kniting of knots is the fashion,  
The Citizen's wife,  
Is void from all strife,  
While busied at such occupation.  
The Beau 's of the Town,  
May chance for to frown,  
Now kniting so much is requested,  
By Ladies whose eyes,  
All Glories Comprise,  
Such Sots are always rejected.  
The Madam of Honour,  
When visits come on her,  
Finds double delight in her kniting,  
An Azmilla of thread,  
From her foot to her head  
Declares she has no mind to Jilting.  
Those baubles of plays,  
That increase or delays,  
Expectation into a kind greeting,  
By kniting of knots,  
Can tell all the spots,  
That Lovers Endure at a meeting.  
The pleasure is such  
No Wise Man will grudge,  
The Joys of our sweet vocation.  
While kniting his Wife,  
Is spending her Life,  
And all for the Pride of the Nation.    
Piscator. 

God a mercy Hobb, we thank you for your Song,  
'Tis time to part, I think 've tarried long.  
The Cocks are now beginning for to Crow,  
And each must part, and to his home now go,  
Lest Wives should chide, who are commanders all,  
Good hours do often keep us from a brawl.  
I'll be those Wives whose clamorous Tongues repay,  
Our softest kindness though we seldom stray,  
Love be our guide, and Love restrains our fears,  
While Love gives health unto succeeding years.  
Time flies apace as we have trial made;  
The Night's too short, or longer I'd a stayed.  
Now take my thanks, kind Corydon, your friends  
Accept the same, my mind now homeward tends  
Lest dubious thoughts, in my Love's breast should rise,  
And anger breed, which to prevent be wise,  
And keep good hours, though now I did exceed  
'Twas Love, 'twas Kindness to my friend indeed,  
Sinister actions, let none willing try  
Good night, prosperity attend you all, good buy.   Corydon. 

Piscator's gone, in joys he's doubly blest,  
While all tranquilities possess his Breast;  
Pious his Soul, contentment in his mind,  
The greatest Treasure Mortals here can find.  
See with with what freedom, and what Love he gave  
His Labours, which declare him Nobly brave.  
Some of his Fish, undressed, my friends, remains,  
Take to your homes, and there Enjoy his pains,  
Which he esteems no labour, had I his Art,  
I'd spare some time from Toilsome Blow and Cart.  
Sweet is the pleasure that Man's Soul possess,  
Where Joys create a lasting happiness.  
Such is an Anglers, who from grief or care,  
Curbs with discretion, thoughts that bring despair.  
Tho I'm no Angler, Anglers still I'll love,  
For Anglers Patience comes from Mighty Jove.     

Postscript.  
WEdnesday the eighth of March, 1699. At Nine a Clock at Night, Mr. Hyde sent his Footman to my House, to tell me that he designed to draw his great Fish Pond at Winckhurst next morning, and desired me to meet him there to be partaker of his diversion with Captain Comer, and Mr. Robert Outram, which I did.  
I have seen several Fish Ponds drawn and abundance of Fish taken, but never in my life so many at one time.  
It was a most pleasing sight to see above a Thousand Golden-scaled Carp at once lie panting on the ground; Some of them above twenty Inches in Length, and silently seemed to lament their Captivity, and among them some overgrown Pearches of eighteen Inches long, whose Porcupine backs and gaping mouths which discovered Teeth as sharp as Spanish Needles, that seemed to threaten the Spectators for debaring them from their proper Element; beside an Infinite Number of most curious Tench, and small Perch, to the great Amazement of the beholders. The reason why Mr. Hyde, sewed his great Pond, was, because he would stock his new Fish Pond at his House at Sundridge place, with only choice Fish, and it is a curious Pond indeed, into which he put three Hundred and Fifty of those Carp which were from Sixteen to twenty Inches in length, beside the large Pearches with abundance of small ones.  
Which in two years' time will grow large, a great many Curious Tench were put in with them, beside a Kilderkin full of very large Silver Eeles, some of them as big as a Man's wrist.  
The Fish were carried in a Wagon, drawn by a stout Team of Horses from Winckhurst Pond to his House at Sundridge, being about four Mile distant one from the other; beside he sent four Hundred delicate Carp to his stews at Boreplace, another of his seats which he keeps always ready to pleasure his Friends and Gentry, who often visit him for their Recreation at both places, but most commonly at Sundridge, where he chief resides.  
The Carp are commendable, they don't eat muddy, for a continual stream preserves them from the offensive taste that most have in other Ponds, that want the conveniency of a stream; and Winckhurst Pond is of such extent, that they were ten days in letting out the water, and the last two days several People watched by a good fire Night and Day, and wanted not the Blessing of Roast Beef and Napy Ale, which Mr. Hyde constantly supplied them with: It's impossible to tell the just Number of Fish we took, for he gave away abundance of every sort to all those he would lend a helping hand, as well Labourers as Friendly Spectators, whose Curiosity brought them to Enjoy the delight that Lovely Spectacle invited them to.  
Among the fine Carp he gave me, with some Silver Eeles, he was pleased to present me with one Perch of thirteen Inches long and nine Inches over, I weighed it when I came home, and it weighed one Pound ten Ounces, and had an other Fish in his Belly, but it was nothing in Comparison to those he carried to Sundridge place, when we had sent away our choice Fish we stocked Winckhurst Pond again, and put in two thousand Carp from nine Inches to fourteen in length, not reckoning the small Perch and Tench, which might be by guess as many more, which in three hours' time were all bravely afloat to their Contentment, by the stream that runs into the Pond.  
I can justy sum up of that days Action, that we took two Thousand Seven Hundred and Fifty Carp.  
Not reckoning those were given away, nor the Tench, nor Perch, nor Silver Eels; I am of opinion that no Pond in the County of Kent, [if in the Nation] had such a stock of Fish, for last Summer I, with Captain Comer and an other Gentleman, did in one Day take with our Angles twenty Brace of Carp of extraordinary growth, if any question the truth of this Postscript, Mr. Hyde himself, with Captain Comer, myself, and several other People of good Quality, who were then with us only as Spectators, can justify the Truth.  
Winckhurst stocked with 2000 Carp. Sundridge Place with 0350 Boar Place stews with 0400 In all. 2750  
FINIS.