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When, too, the sun its noontide beam, Sheds fervid o'er the glittering stream,
In vain your line you throw; But when, on sunless days, the breeze Blows softly through the rustling trees, At morn, or eve, or through the night, When Cynthia sheds her silver light,
Then to the river go; And drag the scaly victim bright,
From the deep wave below.
Of yew, or ash, or hazel wood,
Your pliant angle make, Which upward tap'ring from the hand,
A true elastic bend shall take ; And form'd of twisted silk, or hair. Of polish green for waters clear, For muddy streams a deeper shade, And stronger let your line be made ; And let your hooks be sharp and keen, And keep your tackle neat and clean ; And various implements provide ;
A ring to clear your line from weeds, A leaden weight to sound the tide,
And panier too the angler needs, And lines and hooks of various kinds, According to the fish he finds.