_Bright shines the Sun, play beggers, play, here's scraps enough to serve to day: What noise of viols is so sweet As when our merry clappers ring? What mirth doth want when beggers meet? A beggers life is for a King: Eat, drink and play, sleep when we list, Go where we will so stocks be mist. Bright shines the Sun, play beggers, &c. The world is ours and ours alone, For we alone have world at will; We purchase not, all is our own, Both fields and streets we beggers fill: Play beggers play, play beggers play, here's scraps enough to serve to day. A hundred herds of black and white Upon our Gowns securely feed, And yet if any dare us bite, He dies therefore as sure as Creed: Thus beggers Lord it as they please, And only beggers live at ease: Bright shines the Sun, play beggers play, here's scraps enough to serve to day_. _Pisc_. I thank you good Scholer, this Song was well humor'd by the maker, and well remembred and sung by you; and I pray forget not the Ketch which you promised to make against night, for our Country man honest _Coridon_ will expect your Ketch and my Song, which I must be forc'd to patch up, for it is so long since I learnt it, that I have forgot a part of it. But come, lets stretch our legs a little in a gentle walk to the River, and try what interest our Angles wil pay us for lending them so long to be used by the _Trouts_. _Viat_. Oh me, look you Master, a fish, a fish. _Pisc_. I marry Sir. that was a good fish indeed; if I had had the luck to have taken up that Rod, 'tis twenty to one he should not have broke my line by running to the Rods end, as you suffered him; I would have held him, unless he had been fellow to the great _Trout_ that is neer an ell long, which had his picture drawne, and now to be seen at mine Hoste _Rickabies_ at the _George_ in _Ware_; and it may be, by giving that _Trout_ the Rod, that is, by casting it to him into the water, I might have caught him at the long run, for so I use alwaies to do when I meet with an over-grown fish, and you will learn to do so hereafter; for I tell you, Scholer, fishing is an Art, or at least, it is an Art to catch fish. _Viat_. But, Master, will this _Trout_ die, for it is like he has the hook in his belly? _Pisc_. I wil tel you, Scholer, that unless the hook be fast in his very Gorge, he wil live, and a little time with the help of the water, wil rust the hook, & it wil in time wear away as the gravel does in the horse hoof, which only leaves a false quarter.