gaysome recreation that a man may indulge in; that is to say, for his leisurable hours,-since only then it may be reasonable.

ANGLER.-Hey day, Master! not so fast; a 'man need to have the patience of Job, that he may sit silently by the river, and look down at nothing but his float.'

PAINTER.-Nay, did I say that?

ANGLER. Nevertheless, I cannot but pity 'your dumpish anglers, that wait so meekly for their fortunes, as to seem fixed with all the gravity of carved statues on the margin of their streams

PAINTER.Enough, enough; I said that in ignorance of the joys of anglers. I will never be a scoffer again; and I beseech you to blot those words from your memory, and note me down your willing companion this way a-fishing, every year that God gives us health for such a sweet walk in the month of May. For remember, this life is short, and is not in our own hands; it is as a flower of the field that fadeth and what says Mr. Robert Herrick, whose verses you both love and sing

so well?

Fair daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attain'd his noon :
Stay, stay

Until the hast'ning day

Has run

But to the even song;

And having pray'd together, we

Will go with you along.

But come, brother, you must make me a return for these lines; and then let us be going, for I have appointed a servant with horses to meet me in Ashbourne, that I may reach my house at to-night.

ANGLER.-Well, then, if I give you a plaintive ditty, put it to the account of our parting: it is that sweet sonnet from the Passionate Pilgrim, composed by the greatest bard of the last or any other age.

As it fell upon a day,

In the merry month of May,

Sitting in a pleasant shade,

Which a grove of myrtles made;

Lambs did leap, and birds did sing;

Trees did grow, and plants did spring.

Every thing did banish moan,

Save the nightingale alone.

She, poor bird, as all forlorn,

Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn;

And there sung the dolefull'st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie-fie-fie-now would she cry,
Teru, Teru, by and by.

That to hear her so complain,

Scarce I could from tears refrain:

For her griefs, so lively shown,
Made me think upon mine own.

Ah! (thought 1) thou mourn'st in vain,

None take pity on thy pain.

Senseless trees they cannot hear thee;
Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee;

All thy fellow birds do sing,

Careless of thy sorrowing.

Even so, poor bird, like thee,
None alive will pity me.

And now, good brother, it is almost time to be at home.

PAINTER.-Well-I'll pay the reckoning, and then let's away: but what is here?

ANGLER. We are come again to a lower part of the same Bentley Brook we saw before; so let us pass over; and now we are to the top of the hill.

PAINTER. What noise was that?

Hark, hark, I hear the dancing,

And a nimble morris-prancing.

Look over the hedge: there they are! there is a troop of lads and maidens down in yonder green meadows a-dancing.

ANGLER And so they are!- tripping it merrily round to the tabor and pipe.

PAINTER.-And, look you, there's a bevy of innocent milkmaids, leading a fine sleek cow for a whipp't syllabub: see how she is deck'd with ribbands and scarfs, and wreaths of flowers, and her horns tipped with gold.

ANGLER.-And there the young woodmen begin to dance with the maidens in blue kirtles:

how they foot it to the measure! Out upon the cares and tumults of a court life. I do love to see these honest country junketings, and I pray that merry England may always have a race of happy peasants, and not let melancholy Precisians forbid them to rejoice their tired spirits with lawful sports in the flowery meadows and greenwoods. Hark! how they laugh their

sorrows away.

PAINTER. But stay a-while: they have set themselves down upon the grass; let us see what they will do.

ANGLER.-Hist-hist-they are challenging each other to sing-and now they have begun their

SONG.

Now is the month of Maying,

When merry lads are playing; Falalalalala.

Each with his bouny lass

Upon the greeny grass. Falalalala.

The spring clad all in gladness

Doth laugh at winter's sadness: Falala

And to the bagpipe's sound

The nymphs tread out their ground. Falalalala.

Fye then, why sit we musing,

Youth's sweet delight refusing: Falala

Say, daintie nymphs, and speak,

Shall we play barley-break?

Falalalalala.+ Falalalala.

In The King's Majestie's Declaration concerning 'lawful sports,' Puritans and Precisians are designated as Adversaries of our Church.'-ED.

+ First Book of Ballads to five voices. By Thomas Morley, 1600.

PAINTER.

There's a ballett for you! a most merry madrigal set to music by a choice hand.

ANGLER.And now they are silent and there come the little maids with baskets of bride cakes, and knots of ribbands at their bosoms, with nosegays and bunches of rosemary in their hands.

PAINTER. Now trust me, it is some rustical wedding day; and there you may see the bride in the midst, in a russet gown, and a kirtle of fine worsted.

ANGLER.And there goes the bride cup, all streaming with bride laces of red and white, and full of spiced posset, that the bridegroom. serves her with:-and look you, the tankards are passing round.

PAINTER.-See-see! the lusty woodman has put on his high crown'd hat, turned up with a silver clasp, and leads out his bride to the dance: mark with how special a coyness she gives him her hand; but you may depend she will foot it with the best as soon as she begins.

ANGLER.-There's the bagpipe again: by my word, Sir, they are going to Canary it. Now look at my Gentleman in his yellow stockings, and his fellows all ready.

PAINTER.-No, no: they are for a Corantoe. Is it not excellent? with what a gravity they frolic it up and down.

ANGLER.-Aye, 'tis a merry bridal,