And now, Scholer, my direction for _fly-fishing_ is ended with this showre, for it has done raining, and now look about you, and see how pleasantly that Meadow looks, nay and the earth smels as sweetly too. Come let me tell you what holy Mr. _Herbert_ saies of such dayes and Flowers as these, and then we will thank God that we enjoy them, and walk to the River and sit down quietly and try to catch the other brace of _Trouts_. Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and skie, Sweet dews shal weep thy fall to night, for thou must die. Sweet Rose, whose hew angry and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, and thou must die. Sweet Spring, ful of sweet days & roses, A box where sweets compacted lie; My Musick shewes you have your closes, and all must die. Only a sweet and vertuous soul, Like seasoned timber never gives, But when the whole world turns to cole, then chiefly lives. _Viat_. I thank you, good Master, for your good direction for fly-fishing, and for the sweet enjoyment of the pleasant day, which is so far spent without offence to God or man. And I thank you for the sweet close of your discourse with Mr. _Herberts_ Verses, which I have heard, loved Angling; and I do the rather believe it, because he had a spirit sutable to Anglers, and to those Primitive Christians that you love, and have so much commended. _Pisc_. Well, my loving Scholer, and I am pleased to know that you are so well pleased with my direction and discourse; and I hope you will be pleased too, if you find a _Trout_ at one of our Angles, which we left in the water to fish for it self; you shall chuse which shall be yours, and it is an even lay, one catches; And let me tell you, this kind of fishing, and laying Night-hooks, are like putting money to use, for they both work for the Owners, when they do nothing but sleep, or eat, or rejoice, as you know we have done this last hour, and fate as quietly and as free from cares under this _Sycamore_, as _Virgils Tityrus_ and his _Melibaeus_ did under their broad _Beech_ tree: No life, my honest Scholer, no life so happy and so pleasant as the Anglers, unless it be the Beggers life in Summer; for then only they take no care, but are as happy as we Anglers. _Viat_. Indeed Master, and so they be, as is witnessed by the beggers Song, made long since by _Frank Davison_, a good Poet, who was not a Begger, though he were a good Poet. _Pisc_. Can you sing it, Scholer? _Viat_. Sit down a little, good Master, and I wil try.