_Viat_. 'Tis a faire motion, and I will requite a part of your courtesies with a bottle of _Sack_, and _Milk_, and _Oranges_ and _Sugar_, which all put together, make a drink too good for anybody, but us Anglers: and so Master, here is a full glass to you of that liquor, and when you have pledged me, I wil repeat the Verses which I promised you, it is a Copy printed amongst Sir _Henry Wottons_ Verses, and doubtless made either by him, or by a lover of Angling: Come Master, now drink a glass to me, and then I will pledge you, and fall to my repetition; it is a discription of such Country recreations as I have enjoyed since I had the happiness to fall into your company. _Quivering fears, heart tearing cares, Anxious sighes, untimely tears, Fly, fly to Courts, Fly to fond wordlings sports, Where strain'd Sardonick smiles are glosing stil And grief is forc'd to laugh against her will. Where mirths but Mummery, And sorrows only real be. Fly from our Country pastimes, fly, Sad troops of humane misery, Come serene looks, Clear as the Christal Brooks, Or the pure azur'd heaven that smiles to see The rich attendance on our poverty; Peace and a secure mind Which all men seek, we only find. Abused Mortals did you know Where joy, hearts ease, and comforts grow, You'd scorn proud Towers, And seek them in these Bowers, Where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may shake, But blustering care could never tempest make, No murmurs ere come nigh us, Saving of Fountains that glide by us. Here's no fantastick Mask nor Dance, But of our kids that frisk, and prance; Nor wars are seen Unless upon the green Two harmless Lambs are butting one the other, Which done, both bleating, run each to his mother: And wounds are never found, Save what the Plough-share gives the ground. Here are no false entrapping baits To hasten too too hasty fates Unles it be The fond credulitie Of silly fish, which, worldling like, still look Upon the bait, but never on the hook; Nor envy, 'nless among The birds, for price of their sweet Song. Go, let the diving_ Negro _seek For gems hid in some forlorn creek, We all Pearls scorn, Save what the dewy morne Congeals upon each little spire of grasse, Which careless Shepherds beat down as they passe, And Gold ne're here appears Save what the yellow_ Ceres _bears. Blest silent Groves, oh may you be For ever mirths blest nursery, May pure contents For ever pitch their tents Upon these downs, these Meads, these rocks, these mountains, And peace stil slumber by these purling fountains Which we may every year find when we come a fishing here_.