“When Sunne the earth least shadow spares, And highest stalles in heauen his seat, Then _Lyners_ peeble bones he bares, Who like a lambe, doth lowly bleat, And faintly sliding euery rock, Plucks from his foamy fleece a lock. “Before, a riuer, now a rill, Before, a fence, now scarce a bound: Children him ouer-leape at will, Small beasts, his deepest bottome sound. The heauens with brasse enarch his head, And earth, of yron makes his bed. “But when the milder-mooded skie, His face in mourning weedes doth wrap, For absence of his clearest die, And drops teares in his Centers lap, _Lyner_ gynnes Lyonlike to roare, And scornes old bankes should bound him more. “Then, Second Sea, he rolles, and bear’s, Rockes in his wombe, rickes on his backe, Downe-borne bridges, vptorne wear’s, Witnesse, and wayle, his force, their wracke, Into mens houses fierce he breakes, And on each stop, his rage he wreakes. “Shepheard adiew’s his swymming flocke, The Hinde his whelmed haruest hope, The strongest rampire fear’s his shocke, Plaines scarce can serue to giue him scope, Nor hils a barre; whereso he stray’th, Ensue, losse, terrour, ruine, death.” And these verses show us the manner of the man:-- “I Wayt not at the Lawyers gates, Ne shoulder clymers downe the stayres; I vaunt not manhood by debates, I enuy not the miser’s feares; But meane in state, and calme in sprite, My fishfull pond is my delight. “Where equall distant Hand viewes His forced banks, and Otters cage: Where salt and fresh the poole renues, As spring and drowth encrease or swage: Where boat presents his seruice prest, And well becomes the fishes nest; “There sucking Millet, swallowing Basse, Side-walking Crab, wry-mouthed Flooke, And slip-fist Eele, as euenings passe, For safe bayt at due place doe looke: Bold to approche, quick to espy, Greedy to catch, ready to fly. “In heat the top, in cold the deepe, In springe the mouth, the mids in neap; With changelesse change by shoales they keepe, Fat, fruitfull, ready, but not cheap; Thus meane in state, and calme in sprite, My fishfull pond is my delight.” Antony village is considerably more than a mile distant from the park. It stands picturesquely on the road to Liskeard, on rising ground, entered past a communal tree, encircled with seats, after a good old fashion that seems nowadays but rarely perpetuated.