Home > Work > The Compleat Angler, or the Contemplative Man's Recreation
1 " As no man is born an artist, so no man is born an angler. "
― Izaak Walton , The Compleat Angler, or the Contemplative Man's Recreation
2 " Hops, and Turkies, Carps and BeerCame into England all in a year. "
3 " Quivering fears, heart-tearing cares,Anxious sighs, untimely tears,Fly, fly to courts,Fly to fond worldlings' sports,Where strain'd sardonic smiles are glosing still,And Grief is forc'd to laugh against her will:Where mirth's but mummery,And sorrows only real be.Fly from our country pastimes, fly,Sad troops of human misery.Come, serene looks,Clear as the crystal brooks,Or the pure azur'd heaven that smiles to seeThe rich attendance of our poverty:Peace and a secure mind,Which all men seek, we only find.Abused mortals I did you knowWhere joy, heart's-ease, and comforts grow,You'd scorn proud towers,And seek them in these bowers;Where winds, sometimes, our woods perhaps may shake,But blust'ring care could never tempest make,Nor murmurs e'er 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 seenUnless upon the greenTwo harmless lambs are butting one the other,Which done, both bleating run, each to his motherAnd wounds are never found,Save what the plough-share gives the ground.Here are no false entrapping baits,To hasten too, too hasty Fates,Unless it beThe fond credulityOf silly fish, which worldling like, still lookUpon the bait, but never on the hook;Nor envy, unless amongThe birds, for prize of their sweet song.We all pearls scorn,Save what the dewy mornCongeals upon each little spire of grass,Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass:And gold ne'er here appears,Save what the yellow Ceres bears,Blest silent groves, oh may ye be,For ever, mirth's best nursery !May pure contentsFor ever pitch their tentsUpon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains.And peace still slumber by these purling fountains:Which we may, every year,Meet when we come a-fishing here. "
4 " Farewell, ye gilded follies, pleasing troubles;Farewell, ye honour'd rags, ye glorious bubbles;Fame's but a hollow echo, Gold, pure clay;Honour the darling but of one short day;Beauty, th' eye's idol, but a damask'd skin;State, but a golden prison, to live inAnd torture free-born minds; embroider'd Trains,Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins;And Blood allied to greatness is aloneInherited, not purchas'd, nor our own.Fame, Honour, Beauty, State, Train, Blood and Birth,Are but the fading blossoms of the earth.I would be great, but that the sun doth stillLevel his rays against the rising hill:I would be high, but see the proudest oakMost subject to the rending thunder-stroke:I would be rich, but see men, too unkindDig in the bowels of the richest mind:I would be wise, but that I often seeThe fox suspected, whilst the ass goes free:I would be fair, but see the fair and proud,Like the bright sun, oft setting in a cloud:I would be poor, but know the humble grassStill trampled on by each unworthy ass:Rich, hated wise, suspected, scorn'd if poor;Great, fear'd, fair, tempted, high, still envy'd more.I have wish'd all, but now I wish for neither.Great, high, rich, wise, nor fair: poor I'll be rather.Would the World now adopt me for her heir;Would beauty's Queen entitle me the fair;Fame speak me fortune's minion, could I " vieAngels " with India with a speaking eyeCommand bare heads, bow'd knees, strike justice dumb,As well as blind and lame, or give a tongueTo stones by epitaphs, be call'd " great master "In the loose rhymes of every poetaster ?Could I be more than any man that lives,Great, fair, rich wise, all in superlatives;Yet I more freely would these gifts resignThan ever fortune would have made them mine.And hold one minute of this holy leisureBeyond the riches of this empty pleasure.Welcome, pure thoughts; welcome, ye silent groves;These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves.Now the wing'd people of the sky shall singMy cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring:A pray'r-book, now, shall be my looking-glass,In which I will adore sweet virtue's face.Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace cares,No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-fac'd fears;Then here I'll sit, and sigh my hot love's folly,And learn t' affect an holy melancholy:And if contentment be a stranger then,I'll ne'er look for it, but in heaven, again. "
5 " When I would beget content and increase confidence in the power and wisdom and providence of Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by some gliding stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, and those very many other little living creatures that are not only created, but fed (man knows not how) by the goodness of the God of nature, and therefore trust in him. "