But all these signs of tempest are forgot As soon as seen, or p'rhaps are heeded not, By our friend Peter, for behold his line Gently unrolls and cleaves a watery mine. With patient, anxious, fate-imploring look, He trembling hopes that now his laden hook May sink low down into the dark abyss, Midst fishes' entrails, where it cannot miss Its deadly hold; and where, till life shall fly, The barbèd hook immoveable may lie. But, oh! his chicks he counts before they're hatched, For by his foe, in skill, he's more than matched, (The scaly monster,) who at length of line, The close acquaintance sharply does decline. He tugged, it pulled, but all, alas! was vain, For one on t'other not an inch could gain. First Peter, winding, thought his foe waxed faint, But quickly Jack untwisting--cried, "I aint." Thus passed an hour, but still he keeps the water, Though Peter stormed, and vowed he'd give no quarter When land he reached; but Jack thought all this fun, And cried "No quarter! I'll 'scape whole or none." Then the friar, impatient, began to use force, When his line snapt in two, as a matter of course. [Illustration: The Friar, impatient, began to use force.] Oh! how then enraged, from his head he tore The little of hair that his cropped pate bore, As he flung himself down out of breath to the ground, And furious raved at each object around. While such very bad words at the fish he said, That I'm sure they should never in print be read. For, pray why should a muse, for amusement who sings, Fill her kind readers' mouth with another's foul things. 'Tis a fault I lament, so I'll not have a share in The habit some have of quotation in swearing. In heavy drops the water now descends; And earth with sky the darkening torrent blends. Which soaking through the friar, tries to cool His anger, and persuade him he's a fool. "But still," said he; "I will not leave in spite, Till one I've caught, although the coming night Shall fling down shadows to obscure my sight; Here will I stop until they choose to bite." Then Time rushed past, but unsuccessful still His firm resolve he tarries to fulfil. While louder yet the tempest wildly roars, And drives the torrent o'er surrounding shores. Whence down, resistless, onward bounding hurls The bubbling current, and like whirlpool curls. The frightened fish, too nervous, far, to feed, Dive down and hide beneath a battered reed. Yet to measure the stream with his line he persists, Though his arms they feel sprained, and ache down to the wrists; And the darkness of night appeared really approaching, As quick shade after shade on his light came encroaching.