His certain life, that never can deceive him, Is full of thousand sweets and rich content The smooth-leav'd beeches in the field receive him, With coolest shade, till noon-tide's heat be spent. His life is neither tost in boisterous, seas, Or the vexatious world, or lost in slothful ease; Please and full blest he lives when he his God can please. His bed, more safe than soft, yields quiet sleeps, While by his side his faithful spouse teas place His little son into his bosom creeps, The lively picture of his father's face. His humble house or poor state ne'er torment him Less he could like, if less his God had lent him; And when he dies, green turfs do for a tomb content him, Gentlemen, these were a part of the thoughts that then possessed me. And I there made a conversion of a piece of an old catch, and added more to it, fitting them to be sung by us anglers. Come, Master, you can sing well: you must sing a part of it, as it is in this paper. Man's life is but vain, for 'tis subject to pain, And sorrow, and short as a bubble; 'Tis a hodge-podge of business, and money, and care, And care, and money, and trouble. But we'll take no care when the weather proves fair; Nor will we vex now though it rain; We'll banish all sorrow, and sing till to-morrow, And angle, and angle again. Peter. I marry, Sir, this is musick indeed; this has cheer'd my heart, and made me remember six verses in praise of musick, which I will speak to you instantly. Musick! miraculous rhetorick, thou speak'st sense Without a tongue, excelling eloquence; With what ease might thy errors be excus'd, Wert thou as truly lov'd as th' art abus'd! But though dull souls neglect, and some reprove thee, I cannot hate thee, 'cause the Angels love thee. Venator. And the repetition of these last verses of musick has called to my memory what Mr. Edmund Waller, a lover of the angle, says of love and musick. Whilst I listen to thy voice, Chloris! I feel my heart decay That powerful voice Calls my fleeting soul away: Oh! suppress that magic sound, Which destroys without a wound. Peace, Chloris! peace, or singing die, That together you and I To heaven may go; For all we know Of what the blessed do above Is, that they sing, and that they love. Piscator. Well remembered, brother Peter; these verses came seasonably, and we thank you heartily. Come, we will all join together, my host and all, and sing my scholar's catch over again; and then each man drink the tother cup, and to bed; and thank God we have a dry house over our heads. Piscator. Well, now, good-night to everybody. Peter. And so say I. Venator. And so say I. Coridon. Good-night to you all; and I thank you. The FIFTH day. Piscator. Good-morrow, brother Peter, and the like to you, honest Coridon.