|Share page||Visit Us On FB|
ON ANGLING. 253
As late by the Thames's verdant side,
With a solitary pensive air, Fair Chloe search'd the silver tide,
With pleasing hope and patient care. Forth as she cast the silken fly,
And musing stroll'd the bank along, She thought no list'ning ear was nigh,
While thus she tun'd her moral song.
" The poor unhappy, thoughtless fair,
Like the mute race, are oft undone ; These, with a gilded fly we snare,
With gilded flatt'ry those are won. Careless, like them, they frolic round.
And sporting toss th' alluring bait; At length they feel the treach'rous wound.
And struggle to be free too late.
" But, ah ! fair fools, beneath this show
Of gaudy colours, lurks a hook ; Cautious the bearded mischief view,
And, ere you leap, be sure to look." More she'd have sung—when, from the shade,
Rush'd forth gay Damon, brisk aud young ; And whatsoe'er he did or said,
Poor Chloe quite forgot her song.