R TO HER MOTHER

CHANCERY LANE, LONDON, April 28, 1639.

My Dearest Mother: Matters indeed pass from badd to worse, and I fear
mee that with Izaak spending all hys tyme angling along riversydes and
neglecting the millinery shoppe (wych is our onlie supporte, for can
bodye and soule be keppt in one by a few paltrie brace of trouts a
weeke?) wee shall soone come to a sorrye ende. How many tymes, deare
Mother, have I bewailed my follye in wedding this creature who seemeth
to mee more a fysh than a man, not mearly by reason of hys madnesse for
the gracelesse practice of water-dabbling, but eke for hys passion for
swimming in barley wine, ale, malmsey and other infuriatyng liquours.
What manner of companye doth this dotard keepe on his fyshing pastimes,
God wot! Lo he is wonte to come home at some grievous houre of ye
nyghte, bearing but a smalle catche but plentyful aroma of drinke, and
ofttimes alsoe hys rybalde freinds do accompany hym. Nothing will serve
but they must arouse our kytchen-maide and have some paltry chubb or
gudgeon fryed in greese, filling ye house wyth nauseous odoures, and
wyth their ill prattle of fyshing tackle, not to say the comely
milke-maides they have seen along some wanton meadowside, soe that I am
moste distraught. You knowe, my deare, I never colde abyde fyssche being
colde clammy cretures, and loe onlye last nyghte this Monster dyd come
to my beddside where I laye asleepyng and wake me fromm a sweet drowse
by dangling a string of loathsome queasy trouts, still dryppinge,
against my nose. Lo, says he, are these not beuties? And his reek of
barley wine did fille the chamber. Worste of alle, deare Mother, this
all-advised wretche doth spend alle his vacant houres in compiling a
booke on the art (as he calleth it) of angling, surely a trifling petty
wanton taske that will

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make hym the laughing-stocke of all sober men. God forbidd that oure
littel son sholde be brought uppe in this nastye squanderinge of tyme,
wych doth breede nought (meseems) but ale-bibbing and ye disregarde of
truth. Oure house, wych is but small as thou knowest, is all cluttered
wyth his slimye tackle, and loe but yesterdaye I loste a customer fromm
ye millinery shoppe, shee averring (and I trow ryghtly) that ye shoppe
dyd stinke of fysshe. Ande soe if thys thyng do continue longer I shall
ripp uppe and leave, for I thoght to wed a man and not a paddler of
dytches. O howe I longe for those happy dayes wit