O, THE brave Fisher's life! 'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife; Are but toys! Only this Lawful is! For our skill Breeds no ill; But content and pleasure. In a morning, up we rise 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, There we sit For a bit, Till we fish intangle. We have gentles in a horn; 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 We do chase! Bleak, or gudgeon, We are still contented! Or we sometimes pass an hour That defends us from a shower, Think and pray, 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, Neglect the herb called Time: which now doth bid 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! Must tumble down; And in the dust be equal made 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! 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 And weighs them down With love of gaudy mortal things! Is shorter made; That earth may lessen to our eyes! Hide all his beams in dark recess ! WHAT help of tongue need they require, Whose hands thus speak their chaste desire, Weak is that chain that 's made of air! When palms thus meet; there's no despair |