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ON ANGLING. li 7
How calm and quiet a delight
It is, alone, To read and meditate and write,
By none offended, and offending none, To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's ease, And pleasing a man's self, none other to displease.
0 my beloved nymph, fair Dove, Princess of rivers, how I love
Upon thy flowery banks to lie, And view thy silver stream, When gilded by a summer's beam ; And in it all thy wanton fry, Playing at liberty, And with my angle, upon them The all of treachery
1 ever learn'd, industriously to try.
Such streams Rome's yellow Tiber cannot show, The Iberian Tagus, or Ligurian Po, The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine Are puddle water all compared with thine ; And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted are With thine, much purer, to compare ; The rapid Garonne and the winding Seine Are both too mean,
Beloved Dove, with thee
To vie priority ; Nay, Tame and Isis, when conjoin'd, submit, And lay their trophies at thy silver feet. O my beloved rocks, that rise To awe the earth and brave the skies,