e the thoughts that then possest the undisturbed mind of Sir
_Henry Wotton_. Will you hear the wish of another Angler, and the
commendation of his happy life, [Jo. Da.] which he also sings in Verse.

Let me live harmlesly, and near the brink
Of _Trent_ or _Avon_ have a dwelling place,
Where I may see my _quil_ or _cork_ down sink,
With eager bit of _Pearch_, or _Bleak_, or _Dace_;
And on the world and my Creator think,
Whilst some men strive, ill gotten goods t'imbrace;
And others spend their time in base excess
Of wine or worse, in war and wantonness.

Let them that list these pastimes still pursue,
And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill,
So I the _fields_ and _meadows_ green may view,
And daily by _fresh Rivers_ walk at will,
Among the _Daisies_ and the _Violets_ blue,
Red _Hyacinth_, and yellow _Daffadil_,
Purple _Narcissus_, like the morning rayes,
Pale _ganderglass_ and azure _Culverkayes_.

I count it higher pleasure to behold
The stately compass of the lofty _Skie_,
And in the midst thereof (like burning Gold)
The flaming Chariot of the worlds great eye,
The watry clouds, that in the aire up rold,
With sundry kinds of painted colour flye;
And fair _Aurora_ lifting up her head,
Still blushing, rise from old _Tithonius_ bed.

The _hils_ and _mountains_ raised from the _plains_,
The _plains_ extended level with the _ground_,
The _grounds_ divided into sundry _vains_,
The _vains_ inclos'd with _rivers_ running round;
These _rivers_ making way through natures chains
With headlong course into the sea profound;
The raging _sea_, beneath the vallies low,
Where _lakes_, and _rils_, and _rivulets_ do flow.

The loftie woods, the Forrests wide and long
Adorn'd with leaves & branches fresh & green,
In whose cool bowres the birds with many a song
Do welcom with their Quire the _Sumers Queen_:
The Meadows fair, where _Flora's_ gifts among
Are intermixt, with verdant grass between.
The silver-scaled _fish_ that softly swim,
Within the sweet brooks chrystal watry stream.

All these, and many more of his _Creation_,
That made the Heavens, the _Angler_ oft doth see,
Taking therein no little delectation,
To think how strange, how wonderful they be;
Framing thereof an inward contemplation,
To set his heart from other fancies free;
And whilst he looks on these with joyful eye,
His mind is ra