Since 'tis become a common fate, that we
Must in this world or Fish or Fishers be;
And all neutralitie herin's deny'd,
'Tis not my fault that I am not supply'd
With those three grand essentials of your Art,
Luck, Skill and Patience: For I have a hear:
That's as inclinable as others be,
Whose fortune imps their Ingenuitie.
But then what make I here, to write of that,
I'm unskill'd in, and talk I know not what?
And that in Verse too? 'Tis an itch w'ave got,
We must be scribling, whether learn'd or not.
Nay, here's some reason for't; the forme (we see)
Clubbing with matter, makes a thing to be.
And Trains of livery'd Servitors (we know)
Makes not a Prince; but signifies hee's so.
Cyphers to Figures joyn'd, make summes; and wee
Make something (Friend) when we are joyn'd to thee.
Yet I shall hardly praise, or like thy skill;
For w'are all prone enough to catch and kill;
Thou need'st not make an Art on't: they that are
Once listed in the new Saints Calender,
Do't as they pray and preach by inspiration;
No heathen rules, or old premeditation,
Nor Antichristian acts; who reads our Story,
Will finde, we do't without thy Directory.
But when I think with what a pleasing Art
Thou dost thy Rules both practise and impart,
I am delighted too, as well as taught;
And fishes leap for joy when they are caught:
I could unman my self, and wish to be
A fish, so that I might be took by thee
Blest then are thy Companions, who, with thee
Participate of such felicitie!
Such undisturb'd, such dangerlesse delight,
That does at once both satiate and invite.
Whence more safe joy, more true contentment springs
Then from the Courts of those gay Pageants, Kings
Or great King-riders, who still hurri'd are
With those grand Tyrants, Businesse and Care;
And fling upon base acts, and filthy vice,
Spurr'd on b'Ambition and by Avarice.
Whilest by some gliding River thou sit'st down,
Thy mind's thy Kingdom, and content's thy Crown,
Conversing with the silent fish, and when
Thou'rt killing them, thou think'st of once dead men:
And from Oblivion and the grave setst free
Names, whom thou roabst with Immortalitie.
For he that reads thy WOTTON and thy DONNE,
Can't but believe a Resurrection;
And spite of Envie, this Encomium give,
By Thee Fish die; By Thee dead Friends revive.