wing, or a _fly_ made with a peacocks feather, is excellent in a
bright day: you must be sure you want not in your _Magazin_ bag, the
Peacocks feather, and grounds of such wool, and crewel as will make the
Grasshopper: and note, that usually, the smallest flies are best; and
note also, that, the light flie does usually make most sport in a dark
day: and the darkest and least flie in a bright or cleare day; and
lastly note, that you are to repaire upon any occasion to your
_Magazin_ bag, and upon any occasion vary and make them according to
your fancy.

And now I shall tell you, that the fishing with a naturall flie is
excellent, and affords much pleasure; they may be found thus, the
_May-fly_ usually in and about that month neer to the River side,
especially against rain; the _Oak-fly_ on the Butt or body of an _Oak_
or _Ash_, from the beginning of _May_ to the end of _August_ it is a
brownish fly, and easie to be so found, and stands usually with his
head downward, that is to say, towards the root of the tree, the small
black fly, or _hawthorn_ fly is to be had on any Hawthorn bush, after
the leaves be come forth; with these and a short Line (as I shewed to
Angle for a _Chub_) you may dap or dop, and also with a _Grashopper_,
behind a tree, or in any deep hole, still making it to move on the top
of the water, as if it were alive, and still keeping your self out of
sight, you shall certainly have sport if there be _Trouts_; yea in a
hot day, but especially in the evening of a hot day.

And now, Scholer, my direction for _fly-fishing_ is ended with this
showre, for it has done raining, and now look about you, and see how
pleasantly that Meadow looks, nay and the earth smels as sweetly too.
Come let me tell you what holy Mr. _Herbert_ saies of such dayes and
Flowers as these, and then we will thank God that we enjoy them, and
walk to the River and sit down quietly and try to catch the other brace
of _Trouts_.

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and skie,
Sweet dews shal weep thy fall to night,
for thou must die.

Sweet Rose, whose hew angry and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,
and thou must die.

Sweet Spring, ful of sweet days & roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie;
My Musick shewes you have your closes,
and all must die.

Only a sweet and vertuous soul,
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