Quivering fears, heart tearing cares,Anxious sighes, untimely tears,Fly, fly to Courts,Fly to fond wordlings sports,Where strain'd Sardonick smiles are glosing stilAnd grief is forc'd to laugh against her will.Where mirths but Mummery,And sorrows only real be.Fly from our Country pastimes, fly,Sad troops of humane misery,Come serene looks,Clear as the Christal Brooks,Or the pure azur'd heaven that smiles to seeThe rich attendance on our poverty;Peace and a secure mindWhich all men seek, we only find.Abused Mortals did you knowWhere joy, hearts ease, and comforts grow,You'd scorn proud Towers,And seek them in these Bowers,Where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may shake,But blustering care could never tempest make,No murmurs ere come nigh us,Saving of Fountains that glide by us.Here's no fantastick Mask nor Dance,But of our kids that frisk, and prance;Nor wars are seenUnless upon the greenTwo harmless Lambs are butting one the other,Which done, both bleating, run each to his mother:And wounds are never found,Save what the Plough-share gives the ground.Here are no false entrapping baitsTo hasten too too hasty fatesUnles it beThe fond credulitieOf silly fish, which, worldling like, still lookUpon the bait, but never on the hook;Nor envy, 'nless amongThe birds, for price of their sweet Song.Go, let the divingNegroseekFor gems hid in some forlorn creek,We all Pearls scorn,Save what the dewy morneCongeals upon each little spire of grasse,Which careless Shepherds beat down as they passe,And Gold ne're here appearsSave what the yellowCeresbears.Blest silent Groves, oh may you beFor ever mirths blest nursery,May pure contentsFor ever pitch their tentsUpon these downs, these Meads, these rocks, these mountains,And peace stil slumber by these purling fountainsWhich we may every yearfind when we come a fishing here.
Pisc. Trust me, Scholer, I thank you heartily for these Verses, they be choicely good, and doubtless made by a lover of Angling: Come, now drink a glass to me, and I wil requite you with a very good Copy of Verses; it is a farewel to the vanities of the world, and some say written by D'r. D, but let them bee writ by whom they will, he that writ them had a brave soul, and must needs be possest with happy thoughts at the time of their composure.
Farwel ye guilded follies, pleasing troubles,Farwel ye honour'd rags, ye glorious bubbles;Fame's but a hollow eccho, gold pure clay,Honour the darling but of one short day.Beauty (th'eyes idol) but a damask'd skin,State but a golden prison, to live inAnd torture free-born minds; imbroider'd trainsMeerly but Pageants, for proud swelling vains,And blood ally'd to greatness is aloneInherited, not purchas'd, nor our own.Fame, honor, beauty, state, train, blood & birth,Are but the fading blossomes of the earth.I would be great, but that the Sun doth still,Level his rayes against the rising hill:I would be high, but see the proudest OakMost subject to the rending Thunder-Stroke;I would be rich, but see men too unkindDig in the bowels of the richest mind;I would be wise, but that I often seeThe Fox suspected whilst the Ass goes free;I would be fair, but see the fair and proudLike the bright Sun, oft setting in a cloud;I would be poor, but know the humble grassStill trampled on by each unworthy Asse:Rich, hated; wise, suspected; scorn'd, if poor;Great, fear'd; fair, tempted; high, stil envi'd moreI have wish'd all, but now I wish for neither,Great, high, rich, wise, nor fair, poor I'l be rather.Would the world now adopt me for her heir,Would beauties Queen entitle me the Fair,Fame speak me fortunes Minion, could I vieAngels w'th India, w'th a speaking eyeCommand bare heads, bow'd knees, strike Justice dumbAs wel as blind and lame, or give a tongueTo stones, by Epitaphs, be call'd great Master,In the loose Rhimes of every PoetasterCould I be more then any man that lives,Great, fair, rich, wise in all Superlatives;Yet I more freely would these gifts resign,Then ever fortune would have made them mineAnd hold one minute of this holy leasure,Beyond the riches of this empty pleasure.Welcom pure thoughts, welcome ye silent groves,These guests, these Courts, my soul most dearly loves,Now the wing'd people of the Skie shall singMy chereful Anthems to the gladsome Spring;A Pray'r book now shall be my looking glasse,In which I will adore sweet vertues face.Here dwell no hateful locks, no Pallace cares,No broken vows dwell here, nor pale fac'd fears,Then here I'l sit and sigh my hot loves folly,And learn t'affect an holy melancholy.And if contentment be a stranger, thenI'l nere look for it, but in heaven again.
Viat. Wel Master, these be Verses that be worthy to keep a room in every mans memory. I thank you for them, and I thank you for your many instructions, which I will not forget; your company and discourse have been so pleasant, that I may truly say, I have only lived, since I enjoyed you and them, and turned Angler. I am sorry to part with you here, here in this place where I first met you, but it must be so: I shall long for the ninth ofMay, for then we are to meet atCharls Brandons. This intermitted time wil seem to me (as it does to men in sorrow,) to pass slowly, but I wil hasten it as fast as I can by my wishes, and in the mean timethe blessing of SaintPetersMaster be with mine.
Pisc. And the like be upon my honest Scholer. And upon all that hate contentions, and lovequietnesse, andvertue, andAngling.