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Cupid and Bacchus my saints are,

May drink and love still reign!
With wine I wash away my cares,
And then to love again.



My dear mistress has a heart

Soft as those kind looks she gave me, When, with ove's resistless art,

And her eyes, she did enslave me. But her constancy's so weak,

She's so wild and apt to wander, That my jealous heart would break, Should we live one day asunder.

Melting joys about her move,

Killing pleasures, wounding blisses: She can dress her eyes in love,

And her lips can warm with kisses. Angels listen when she speaks,

She's my delight, all mankind's wonder; But my jealous heart would break,

Should we live one day asunder.



[IZAAK WALTON was born at Stafford, in 1593. He kept a very small linendraper's shop, first at the Royal Exchange, and then in Fleet Street, at the corner of Chancery Lane; and retained in the midst of London, notwithstanding the closest attention to business, an enthusiastic attachment to the country, its scenes, and its pleasures. He married a lady of respectable family, which was probably the cause of * his introduction to many eminent persons. He retired from business in 1643, and lived for forty years afterwards in literary retirement, during which time he wrote a number of works; nor did he relax his labours as an author, until he died, in his ninetieth year. He was buried at Winchester. His "Complete Angler" is a book which will live as long as the love of country life exists. He was accustomed to say that " God never did make a more calm, quiet, innocent recreation than angling."]

I IN these flowery meads would be;
These crystal streams should solace me;
To whose harmonious bubbling noise,

I with my angle would rejoice;

Sit here, and see the turtle-dove

Court his chaste mate to acts of love;

Or on the bank feel the west wind
Breathe health and plenty: please my mind,
To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers,
And then washed off by April showers;

Here, hear my Kenna sing a song;
There, see a blackbird feed her young,

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Or a laverock build her nest:

Here give my weary spirits rest,
And raise my low-pitch'd thoughts above
Earth, or what poor mortals love:

Thus, free from lawsuits and the noise
Of princes' courts, I would rejoice.

Or, with my Bryan and a book,
Loiter long days near Shawford brook;
There sit by him, and eat my meat,
There see the sun both rise and set,
There bid good morning to next day,
There meditate my time away,

And angle on; and beg to have

A quiet passage to a welcome grave.




[THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON, nephew to the celebrated Earl of Strafford, was born in 1633. He resided abroad during the Civil War, but returned to England at the Restoration, and was made, first, Captain of the band of Pensioners, and afterwards Master of the Horse to the Duchess of York. Foreseeing what would result from the arbitrary measures of James II. he was about to set out for Rome, declaring that "it was best to sit near the chimney, when the chamber smoked;" but a fit of the gout prevented his leaving England, and he died in 1684.

Like Denham, he was addicted to gambling, but this did not prevent him from devoting himself zealously to literature; and he was warmly praised both by Dryden and Pope. Posterity, however, has not confirmed their judgment. He was an elegant, but a cold and unimpassioned writer. He died repeating two lines of his own translation of the "Dies Ira," which follows:-]

THAT day of wrath, that dreadful day,

Shall the whole world in ashes lay,
As David and the Sibyls say.

What horror will invade the mind,
When the strict Judge, who would be kind,
Shall have few venial faults to find!

The last loud trumpet's wondrous sound
Shall through the rending tombs rebound,
And wake the nations under ground.

Nature and Death shall, with surprise,
Behold the pale offender rise,
And view the Judge with conscious eyes.


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