sure that your riches be justly got, or you spoil all. For it is well said by Caussin1, " He that loses his conscience has nothing left that is worth keeping." Therefore be sure you look to that. And, in the next place, look to your health: and if you have it, praise God, and value it next to a good conscience; for health is the second blessing that we mortals are capable of; a blessing that money cannot buy; and therefore value it, and be thankful for it. As for money, (which may be said to be the third blessing,) neglect it not but note, that there is no necessity of being rich; for I told you, there be as many miseries beyond riches as on this side them: and if you have a competence, enjoy it with a meek, cheerful, thankful heart. I will tell you, Scholar, I have heard a grave Divine say, that God has two dwellings; one in heaven, and the other in a meek and thankful heart; which Almighty God grant to me, and to my honest Scholar. And so you are welcome to Tottenham High-Cross.

Ven. Well, Master, I thank you for all your good directions; but for none more than this last, of thankfulness, which I hope I shall never forget. And pray let's now rest ourselves in this sweet shady arbour, which nature herself has woven with her own fine fingers; 'tis such a contexture of woodbines, sweetbriar, jessamine, and myrtle; and so interwoven, as will secure us both from the sun's violent heat, and from the approaching shower. And being sat down, I will requite a part of your courtesies with a

(1) Nicholas Caussin, a native of Troyes in Champagne, wrote a book called The Holy Court; of which there is an English translation in folio. He was esteemed a person of great probity; and of such a spirit, that he attempted to displace Cardinal Richelieu; but that minister proved too hard for him, and got him banished. He returned to Paris after the Cardinal's death, and died there in the convent of Jesuits, July 1651.

(2) Dr. Donne.

X

bottle of sack, milk, oranges, and sugar; which, all put together, make a drink like nectar; indeed, too good for any but us Anglers. And so, Master, here is a full glass to you of that liquor: and when you have pledged me, I will repeat the Verses which I promised you: it is a Copy printed among some of Sir Henry Wotton's', and doubtless made either by him, or by a lover of angling. Come, Master, now drink a glass to me, and then I will pledge you, and fall to my repetition; it is a description of such country recreations as I have enjoyed since I had the happiness to fall into your company.

Quivering fears, heart-tearing cares,
Anxious sighs, untimely tears,

Fly, fly to courts,

Fly to fond worldlings' sports,

2

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 see

The rich attendance on our poverty:

Peace and a secure mind,

Which all men seek, we only find.

Abused mortals! did you know

Where joy, heart's-ease, and comforts grow,

You'd scorn proud towers,

And seek them in these bowers;

(1) See Reliquiæ Wottonianæ, 8vo. 1685. page 390.

(2) Feigned, or forced smiles, from the word Sardon, the name of a herb, resembling smallage, and growing in Sardinia, which being eaten by men, contracts the muscles, and excites laughter, even to death. Vide Erasmi Adagia, tit. Risus.

Where winds, sometimes, our woods perhaps may sbake,

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 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 entrapping baits,

To hasten too, too hasty Fates,

Unless it be

The fond credulity

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 morn

Congeals 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.

Upon 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.

Pisc. Trust me, Scholar, I thank you heartily for these