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There blissful thoughts his mind engage, To crouded noisy scenes unknown ;
Wak'd by some bard's instructive page, Or calm reflections all his own. If health, &c.
Thus whether groves or meads he roams, Or by the stream his Angle tends;
Pleasure in sweet succession comes, And the sweet rustic never ends. If health, &c.
THE ANGLER'S SONG.
As things most lov'd exite our talk, Some praise the hound, and some the hawk Whilst those who chuse less rustic sport, Tennis, or some fair mistress court:
But these delights I neither wish,
Nor envy, while I freely fish.
Who hunt, in dangers often ride ;
Who hawk, oft lure both far and wide;
Who game, shall frequent losses prove ;
While the fond wretch allur'd to love, Is fetter'd in blind cupid's snare— My Angle breeds me no such care.