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To my dear Brother Mr. Izaak Walton, upon his Compleat Angler.

ERASMUS in his learned Colloquies

Has mixt some toys, that by varieties
He might entice all readers for in him
Each child may wade, or tallest giant swim.
And such is this discourse: there's none so low,
Or highly learn'd, to whom hence may not flow
Pleasure and information: both which are
Taught us with so much art, that I might swear
Safely, the choicest critic cannot tell,

Whether your matchless judgement most excel
In Angling or its praise: where commendation
First charms, then makes an art a recreation.
'Twas so to me; who saw the cheerful Spring
Pictur'd in every meadow, heard birds sing
Sonnets in every grove, saw fishes play

In the cool crystal streams, like lambs in May:
And they may play, till Anglers read this book;
But after, 'tis a wise fish 'scapes a hook.

Jo. FLOUD, Mr. of Arts.

To the Reader of the Compleat Angler.

FIRST mark the Title well; my Friend that gave it
Has made it good; this book deserves to have it.
For he that views it with judicious looks,

Shall find it full of art, baits, lines, and hooks.
The world the river is; both you and I,
And all mankind, are either fish or fry.
If we pretend to reason, first or last

His baits will tempt us, and his hooks hold fast.
Pleasure or profit, either prose or rhyme,
If not at first, will doubtless take 's in time.
Here sits, in secret, blest Theology,

Waited upon by grave Philosophy,
Both natural and moral; History,
Deck'd and adorn'd with flowers of Poetry,
The matter and expression striving which
Shall most excel in worth, yet not seem rich:
There is no danger in his baits; that hook
Will prove the safest, that is surest took.

Nor are we caught alone, but (which is best) We shall be wholesome, and be toothsome drest; Drest to be fed, not to be fed upon :

And danger of a surfeit here is none.
The solid food of serious contemplation

Is sauc'd, here, with such harmless recreation,
That an ingenuous and religious mind
Cannot inquire for more than it may find
Ready at once prepar'd, either t' excite

Or satisfy a curious appetite.

More praise is due

for 'tis both positive And truth, which once was interrogative,

And utter'd by the poet, then, in jest― 'Et piscatorem piscis amare potest.'

CH. HARVIE, Mr. of Arts.

To my dear Friend, Mr. Iz. Walton, in praise of Angling, which we both love.

Down by this smooth stream's wandering side,
Adorn'd and perfum'd with the pride
Of Flora's wardrobe, where the shrill
Aerial choir express their skill,
First, in alternate melody,
And, then, in chorus all agree.

Whilst the charm'd fish, as ecstasied
With sounds, to his own throat denied,
Scorns his dull element, and springs
I' th' air, as if his fins were wings.

'Tis here that pleasures sweet and high Prostrate to our embraces lie :

Such as to body, soul, or fame,

Create no sickness, sin, or shame :
Roses not fenc'd with pricks grow here;
No sting to th' honey-bag is near:
But (what's perhaps their prejudice)
They difficulty want and price.

An obvious rod, a twist of hair,
With hook hid in an insect, are
Engines of sport, would fit the wish
O' th' Epicure, and fill his dish.

In this clear stream let fall a grub; And straight take up a Dace or Chub. I' th' mud, your worm provokes a snig, Which being fast, if it prove big, The Gotham folly will be found Discreet, ere ta'en she must be drown'd. The Tench (physician of the brook) In yon dead hole expects your hook; Which having first your pastime been, Serves then for meat or medicine. Ambush'd behind that root doth stay A Pike, to catch, and be a prey. The treacherous quill in this slow stream Betrays the hunger of a Bream. And at that nimbler ford (no doubt) Your false fly cheats a speckled Trout. When you these creatures wisely choose To practise on, which to your use Owe their creation, and when Fish from your arts do rescue men, To plot, delude, and circumvent, Ensnare, and spoil, is innocent. Here by these crystal streams you may Preserve a conscience clear as they; And when by sullen thoughts you find Your harassed, not busied, mind In sable melancholy clad,

Distemper'd, serious, turning sad;

Hence fetch your cure, cast in your bait,
All anxious thoughts and cares will straight
Fly with such speed, they'll seem to be
Possest with the hydrophobie.

The water's calmness in your breast,
And smoothness on your brow, shall rest.
Away with sports of charge and noise,
And give me cheap and silent joys,
Such as Actaeon's game pursue,

Their fate oft makes the tale seem true.
The sick or sullen hawk, to-day,
Flies not; to-morrow, quite away.
Patience and purse to cards and dice
Too oft are made a sacrifice :

The daughter's dower, th' inheritance
O' th' son, depend on one mad chance.
The harms and mischiefs which th' abuse
Of wine doth every day produce,
Make good the doctrine of the Turks,
That in each grape a devil lurks.
And by yon fading sapless tree,
'Bout which the ivy twin'd you see,
His fate's foretold, who fondly places
His bliss in woman's soft embraces.
All pleasures, but the Angler's, bring
I' th' tail repentance like a sting.

Then on these banks let me sit down,
Free from the toilsome sword and gown ;
And pity those that do affect

To conquer nations and protect.
My reed affords such true content,
Delights so sweet and innocent,
As seldom fall unto the lot

Of sceptres, though they're justly got.

1649.

THO. WEAVER, Mr. of Arts.

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