Fishing

One morning in June, when all nature did bloom, The angler got up and away; The birds strain'd their throats, in melodious notes, To welcome the approaching day: Thus being charm'd, and with solitude arm'd, Calm patience the angler's theme; He hies to the brook, with his rod, line, and hook, And joyfully fishes the stream. He walks down the meadows so pleasant and green, Intent on his angle and prey; The mower so blythe whets his scythe with a stone, While maidens are making new hay: The sport being over, he packs up his store, Returns to the villa again; The ev'ning he spends with his bottle and friends, Where wine, mirth, and joy crown his pain.