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.
Pisc. Trust me, Scholer, I thank you heartily for these Verses, they be choicely good, and doubtless made by a lover of Angling: Come, now drink a glass to me, and I wil requite you with a very good Copy of Verses; it is a farewel to the vanities of the world, and some say written by D'r. D, but let them bee writ by whom they will, he that writ them had a brave soul, and must needs be possest with happy thoughts at the time of their composure.
Farwel ye honour'd rags, ye glorious bubbles;
Fame's but a hollow eccho, gold pure clay,
Honour the darling but of one short day.
Beauty (th'eyes idol) but a damask'd skin,
State but a golden prison, to live in
And torture free-born minds; imbroider'd trains
Meerly but Pageants, for proud swelling vains,
And blood ally'd to greatness is alone
Inherited, not purchas'd, nor our own.
Fame, honor, beauty, state, train, blood & birth,
Are but the fading blossomes of the earth.
I would be great, but that the Sun doth still,
Level his rayes against the rising hill:
I would be high, but see the proudest Oak
Most subject to the rending Thunder-Stroke;
I would be rich, but see men too unkind
Dig in the bowels of the richest mind;
I would be wise, but that I often see
The Fox suspected whilst the Ass goes free;
I would be fair, but see the fair and proud
Like the bright Sun, oft setting in a cloud;
I would be poor, but know the humble grass
Still trampled on by each unworthy Asse:
Rich, hated; wise, suspected; scorn'd, if poor;
Great, fear'd; fair, tempted; high, stil envi'd more
I have wish'd all, but now I wish for neither,
Great, high, rich, wise, nor fair, poor I'l be rather.
Would the world now adopt me for her heir,
Would beauties Queen entitle me the Fair,
Fame speak me fortunes Minion, could I vie
Angels w'th India, w'th a speaking eye
Command bare heads, bow'd knees, strike Justice dumb
As wel as blind and lame, or give a tongue
To stones, by Epitaphs, be call'd great Master,
In the loose Rhimes of every Poetaster
Could I be more then any man that lives,
Great, fair, rich, wise in all Superlatives;
Yet I more freely would these gifts resign,
Then ever fortune would have made them mine
And hold one minute of this holy leasure,
Beyond the riches of this empty pleasure.
Welcom pure thoughts, welcome ye silent groves,
These guests, these Courts, my soul most dearly loves,
Now the wing'd people of the Skie shall sing
My chereful Anthems to the gladsome Spring;
A Pray'r book now shall be my looking glasse,
In which I will adore sweet vertues face.
Here dwell no hateful locks, no Pallace cares,
No broken vows dwell here, nor pale fac'd fears,
Then here I'l sit and sigh my hot loves folly,
And learn t'affect an holy melancholy.
And if contentment be a stranger, then
I'l nere look for it, but in heaven again.
Viat. Wel Master, these be Verses that be worthy to keep a room in every mans memory. I thank you for them, and I thank you for your many instructions, which I will not forget; your company and discourse have been so pleasant, that I may truly say, I have only lived, since I enjoyed you and them, and turned Angler. I am sorry to part with you here, here in this place where I first met you, but it must be so: I shall long for the ninth of May, for then we are to meet at Charls Brandons. This intermitted time wil seem to me (as it does to men in sorrow,) to pass slowly, but I wil hasten it as fast as I can by my wishes, and in the mean time the blessing of Saint Peters Master be with mine.
Pisc. And the like be upon my honest Scholer. And upon all that hate contentions, and love quietnesse, and vertue, and Angling.