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.

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:
Th