e and a secure mind
Which all men seek, we only find.

Abused Mortals did you know
Where joy, hearts ease, and comforts grow,
You'd scorn proud Towers,
And seek them in these Bowers,
Where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may shake,
But blustering care could never tempest make,
No murmurs ere come nigh us,
Saving of Fountains that glide by us.

Here's no fantastick Mask nor Dance,
But of our kids that frisk, and prance;
Nor wars are seen
Unless upon the green
Two harmless Lambs are butting one the other,
Which done, both bleating, run each to his mother:
And wounds are never found,
Save what the Plough-share gives the ground.

Here are no false entrapping baits
To hasten too too hasty fates
Unles it be
The fond credulitie
Of silly fish, which, worldling like, still look
Upon the bait, but never on the hook;
Nor envy, 'nless among
The birds, for price of their sweet Song.

Go, let the diving _Negro_ seek
For gems hid in some forlorn creek,
We all Pearls scorn,
Save what the dewy morne
Congeals upon each little spire of grasse,
Which careless Shepherds beat down as they passe,
And Gold ne're here appears
Save what the yellow _Ceres_ bears.

Blest silent Groves, oh may you be
For ever mirths blest nursery,
May pure contents
For ever pitch their tents
Upon these downs, these Meads, these rocks, these mountains,
And peace stil slumber by these purling fountains
Which we may every year
find when we come a fishing here.

_Pisc._ Trust me, Scholer, I thank you heartily for these Verses, they
be choicely good, and doubtless made by a lover of Angling: Come, now
drink a glass to me, and I wil requite you with a very good Copy of
Verses; it is a farewel to the vanities of the world, and some say
written by _Dr. D_, but let them bee writ by whom they will, he that
writ them had a brave soul, and must needs be possest with happy
thoughts at the time of their composure.

Farwel ye guilded follies, pleasing troubles,
Farwel ye honour'd rags, ye glorious bubbles;
Fame's but a hollow eccho, gold pure clay,
Honour the darling but of one short day.
Beauty (th'eyes idol) but a damask'd skin,
State but a golden prison, to live in
And torture free-born minds; imbroider'd trains
Meerly but Pageants, for proud swelling vains,
And blood ally'd to greatness is alone
Inherit