MY DEAR FRIEND, MR. IZ. WALTON,
In praise of Angling, which we both love.
Down by this smooth stream's wand'ring side,
Adorn'd and perfum'd with the pride
Of Flora's wardrobe, where the shrill
Aerial choir express their skill,
First, in alternate melody,
And, then, in chorus all agree.
Whilst the charm'd fish, as extasy'd
With sounds, to his own throat deny'd,
Scorns his dull element, and springs
I' th' air, as if his fins were wings.
'Tis here that pleasures sweet and high
Prostrate to our embraces lie:
Such as to body, soul, or fame,
Create no sickness, sin, or shame:
Roses, not fenc'd with pricks, grow here;
No sting to th' honey-bag is near:
But, what's perhaps their prejudice,
They difficulty want and price.
An obvious rod, a twist of hair,
With hook hid in an insect, are
Engines of sport would fit the wish
O' th' Epicure, and fill his dish.
In this clear stream, let fall a grub;
And, strait, take up a Dace or Chub.
I' th' mud, your worm provokes a snig,
Which being fast, if it prove big,
The Gotham folly will be found
Discreet, ere ta'en she must be drown'd.
The Tench, physician of the brook,
In yon dead hole expects your hook;
Which having first your pastime been,
Serves then for meat or medicine.
Ambush'd behind that root doth stay
A Pike; to catch, and be a prey.
The treacherous quill in this slow stream
Betrays the hunger of a Bream.
And at that nimble ford, no doubt.
Your false fly cheats a speckled Trout.
When you these creatures wisely chuse
To practise on, which to your use
Owe their creation,-and when
Fish from your arts do rescue men,—
To plot, delude, and circumvent,
Ensnare, and spoil, is innocent.
Here by these crystal streams you may
Preserve a conscience clear as they;
And when by sullen thoughts you find
Your harassed, not busied, mind
In sable melancholy clad,
Distemper'd, serious, turning sad;
Hence fetch your cure, cast in your bait,
All anxious thoughts and cares will strait
Fly with such speed, they'll seem to be
Possest with the hydrophobie.
The water's calmness in your breast,
And smoothness on your brow, shall rest.
Away with sports of charge and noise,
And give me cheap and silent joys,
Such as Acteon's game pursue,
Their fate oft makes the tale seem true.
The sick or sullen hawk, to-day,
Flies not; to-morrow, quite away.
Patience and purse to cards and dice
Too oft are made a sacrifice :
The daughter's dower, th' inheritance
O' th' son, depend on one mad chance.
The harms and mischiefs which th' abuse
Of wine doth every day produce,
Make good the doctrine of the Turks,
That in each grape a devil lurks.
And by yon fading sapless tree,
'Bout which the ivy twin'd you see,
His fate's foretold, who fondly places
His bliss in woman's soft embraces.
All pleasures, but the angler's, bring
I' the tail repentance, like a sting.
Then on these banks let me sit down,
Free from the toilsome sword and gown;
And pity those that do affect
To conquer nations and protect.
My reed affords such true content,
Delights so sweet and innocent,
As seldom fall unto the lot
Of sceptres, though they're justly got.
THO. WEAVER, Mr. of Arts.
OF MY MOST INGENUOUS FRIEND'S BOOK,
HE that both knew and writ the Lives of men,
Such as were once, but must not be again;
Witness his matchless Donne and Wotton, by
Whose aid he could their speculations try:
He that convers'd with angels, such as were
Ouldsworth' and Featly, each a shining star
Shewing the way to Bethlem; each a saint,
Compar❜d to whom our zealots, now, but paint.
He that our pious and learn'd Morley3 knew,
And from him suck'd wit and devotion too.
(1) Dr. Richard Holdsworth. See an account of him in the Fasti Oxon. 207; and in Ward's Lives of the Gresham Professors.
(2) Dr. Daniel Featly, for whom see Athen. Oxon. 603.
(3) Dr. George Morley, bishop of Winchester.
He that from these such excellencies fetch'd,
That He could tell how high and far they reach'd;
What learning this, what graces th' other had;
And in what several dress each soul was clad.
Reader, this He, this fisherman, comes forth,
And in these fisher's weeds would shroud his worth.
Now his mute harp is on a willow hung,
With which, when finely touch'd, and fitly strung,
He could friends' passions for these times allay,
Or chain his fellow anglers from their prey.
But now the music of his pen is still,
And he sits by a brook watching a quill :
Where with a fixt eye, and a ready hand,
He studies first to hook, and then to land
Some Trout, or Pearch, or Pike; and having done,
Sits on a bank, and tells how this was won,
And that escap'd his hook, which with a wile
Did eat the bait, and fisherman beguile.
Thus whilst some vex they from their lands are thrown,
He joys to think the waters are his own;
And like the Dutch, he gladly can agree
To live at peace now, and have fishing free.
April 3, 1650.
MY DEAR BROTHER, MR. IZ. WALTON,
THIS book is so like you, and you like it, For harmless mirth, expression, art, and wit, That I protest, ingenuously 'tis true,
I love this mirth, art, wit, the book, and you.
CLARISSIMO AMICISSIMOQUE FRATRI,
ARTIS PISCATORIÆ PERITISSIMO.
UNICUS est medicus reliquorum piscis, et istis,
Fas quibus est medicum tangere, certa salus.
Hic typus est salvatoris mirandus JESU,
*Litera mysterium quælibet hujus habet.
Hunc cupio, hunc capias, (bone frater arundinis,) xtúr:
+ Solveret hic pro me debita, teque Deo.
Piscis is est, et piscator, mihi credito, qualem
Vel piscatorem piscis amare velit.
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