Painter. What care I for twenty miles, fo I may but drink a cup from that fountain of the Dove to the health of my mafter, Mr. Izaak Walton?

Both.

Oh! the gallant fisher's life,

It is the best of any;

'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife,
And 'tis beloved by many.

Other joys

Are but toys,
Only this

Lawful is;

For our skill

Breeds no ill,

But content and pleasure.

Angler. In a morning up we rise,
Ere Aurora's peeping;
Drink a cup to wash our eyes,
Leave the fluggard sleeping.

Both.

Then we go,

To and fro,

With our knacks

At our backs,

To the Dove,

That we love,

If we have the leisure.

Angler. Excellent, excellent- you have conquered me ;' and to speak the truth, I but tried

CC

if you were in earneft; for once on a time I walked by myself to the Dove Head, and I may tell you all the way is as full of fair fweet profpects as any can defire that love angling and the wild hadder of the moors; fo let us be gone to-morrow before the fun rifing.

Painter. I care not how early; and now every one to bed with a prayerful heart, that he may secretly fetch down his consolation from Heaven, and make every thing contribute to his gradual ascent thither.

Angler. Good night, all.

CHAPTER IV.

The Angler and the Painter take a pleasant walk to the fource of the Dove.

Angler.

OW now! brave Gentleman, how fares it with you this morning?

Painter. Trust me, I am full of

joyful expectations.

Angler. Then you do not repent your fudden challenge to walk across the moors to the Dove Head?

Painter. Oh, Sir, never fear me.

• Hark! the lark at Heaven's gate fings
'And Phoebus 'gins to arife,

• His steeds to water at those springs
'On chalic'd flowers that lies.'

The air of these mountains hath a wholesome

freshness that gives wings to the spirit.

Angler. Very true; and I have the authority of learned Sir William Temple to declare, that health and long life are to be found on the Peak of Derbyshire, and the heaths of Staffordshire. Are you for breakfast ?

Painter. Ay! and look, our hoft has provided for us in this arbour in his garden; fee, how it is grown over with jeffamines and honeyfuckles.

Angler. And here is a hedge of sweet-briers —it all breathes fragrancy.

Painter. It is very pleasant; and now let us discuss our breakfast with all freedom, as honeft anglers ought to do: here's new baked bread, and milk and honey; and here's a bowl of curds and whey, with nutmeg and ginger. Are you for that?

Angler. With all my heart.

Painter. What say you, brother; is not here a most fresh and unmatchable morning for travellers? Do but look over thofe hills; and there are the blue moors, backed by the burnished light of the fun rifing behind them. What can be more glorious?

Painter. Nothing, nothing-see how he 'cometh forth as a bridegroom from his chamber, and rejoiceth as a strong man to run a 'race.'

Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,
With night we banish forrow;

Sweet air, blow soft, mount, larks, aloft,
To give my love good morrow.
Wings from the wind, to please the mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
Bird, plume thy wing, nightingales, fing,
To give my love good morrow,
To give my love good morrow.
Notes from them both I'll borrow.

Wake from thy neft, robin redbreast,
Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each hill let mufic fhrill,
Give my
fair love good morrow.
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock sparrow,
You pretty elves, among yourselves,
Sing my fair love good morrow.

To give my love good morrow,
Sing, birds, in every furrow.

Angler. Excellent well!—it is a fong of Mr. Thomas Heywood?

Painter. The fame; and now it is your

turn.

Angler. Let me confider a while; I'll give you a ballad of John Welbye. Or ftay-now, I have one:

In pride of May,

The fields are gay,

The birds do fing, so sweetly sing