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O, THE brave Fisher's life!
It is the best of any!

'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife;
And 'tis beloved of many.
Other joys

Are but toys!

Only this

Lawful is!

For our skill

Breeds no ill;

But content and pleasure.

In a morning, up we rise
Ere AURORA 's peeping;
Drink a cup, to wash our eyes,
Leave the sluggard sleeping.
Then we go

To and fro,

With our knacks

At our backs,

To such streams

As the Thames,

If we have the leisure.

When we please to walk abroad

For our recreation,

In the fields is our abode,

Full of delectation!

Where, in a brook,

With a hook,

Or a lake,
Fish we take.

There we sit

For a bit,

Till we fish intangle.

We have gentles in a horn;
We have paste and worms too!
We can watch, both night and morn,
Suffer rain and storms too!

None do here

Use to swear!

Oaths do fray

Fish away!

We sit still,

Watch our quill;

Fishers must not wrangle!

If the sun's excessive heat
Makes our bodies swelter;
To an osier hedge we get,
For a friendly shelter.
Where, in a dike,
Perch, or pike,
Roach, or dace,

We do chase!

Bleak, or gudgeon,
Without grudging;

We are still contented!

Or we sometimes pass an hour
Under a green willow,

That defends us from a shower,
Making earth our pillow.
There, we may

Think and pray,
Before Death

Stops our breath!

Other joys

Are but toys;

And to be lamented.

ON HIS MISTRESS'S GARDEN OF HERBS.

HEART'S-EASE, a herb that sometimes hath been seen,
In my Love's garden plot, to flourish green,
Is dead and withered with a wind of woe:
And bitter Rue in place thereof doth grow.
The cause I find to be, Because I did

Neglect the herb called Time: which now doth bid
Me never hope; nor look once more again
To gain Heart's-ease, to ease my heart of pain.
One hope is this, in this my woeful case,

My Rue, though bitter, may prove Herb of Grace.

BEFORE THE BODY OF AJAX.

THE glories of our blood and State

Are shadows; not substantial things!
There is no armour against Fate!
Death lays his icy hand on Kings!
Sceptre and Crown

Must tumble down;

And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crookèd Scythe and Spade!

Some men with swords may reap the Field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves, at last, must yield! They tame but one another still! Early, or late,

They stoop to Fate!

And must give up their murmuring breath; When they, pale captives, creep to death!

The garlands wither on your brow;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds! Upon Death's purple altar now,

See, where the Victor-Victim bleeds!
Your heads must come

To the cold tomb!

Only the actions of the Just

Smell sweet, and blossom, in their dust!

NUNS DISCOVERED, SINGING.

O, FLY, my soul! What hangs upon
Thy drooping wings;

And weighs them down

With love of gaudy mortal things!
The sun is now i' th' East. Each shade,
As he doth rise,

Is shorter made;

That earth may lessen to our eyes!
O, be not careless then, and play,
Until the Star of Peace

Hide all his beams in dark recess !
Poor pilgrims needs must lose their way,
When all the shadows do increase!

WHAT help of tongue need they require,
Or use of other art;

Whose hands thus speak their chaste desire,
And grasp each other's heart?

Weak is that chain that 's made of air!
Our tongues but chafe our breath!

When palms thus meet; there's no despair
To make a double wreath!

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