The Complete Angler 1653

“As no man is born an artist, so no man is born an angler.””

— Izaak Walton

“Hops, and Turkies, Carps and BeerCame into England all in a year.””

— Izaak Walton

“And for you that have heard many grave, serious men pity Anglers; let me tell you, Sir, there be many men that are by others taken to be serious and grave men, whom we contemn and pity. Men that are taken to be grave, because nature hath made them of a sour complexion; money-getting men, men that spend all their time, first in getting, and next, in anxious care to keep it; men that are condemned to be rich, and then always busy or discontented: for these poor rich-men, we Anglers pity them perfectly, and stand in no need to borrow their thoughts to think ourselves so happy.””

— Izaak Walton

“Quivering fears, heart-tearing cares,Anxious sighs, untimely tears,Fly, fly to courts,Fly to fond worldlings' sports,Where strain'd sardonic smiles are glosing still,And Grief is forc'd to laugh against her will:Where mirth's but mummery,And sorrows only real be.Fly from our country pastimes, fly,Sad troops of human misery.Come, serene looks,Clear as the crystal brooks,Or the pure azur'd heaven that smiles to seeThe rich attendance of our poverty:Peace and a secure mind,Which all men seek, we only find.Abused mortals I did you knowWhere joy, heart's-ease, and comforts grow,You'd scorn proud towers,And seek them in these bowers;Where winds, sometimes, our woods perhaps may shake,But blust'ring care could never tempest make,Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us,Saving of fountains that glide by us.Here's no fantastick mask, nor dance,But of our kids that frisk and prance;Nor wars are seenUnless upon the greenTwo harmless lambs are butting one the other,Which done, both bleating run, each to his motherAnd wounds are never found,Save what the plough-share gives the ground.Here are no false entrapping baits,To hasten too, too hasty Fates,Unless it beThe fond credulityOf silly fish, which worldling like, still lookUpon the bait, but never on the hook;Nor envy, unless amongThe birds, for prize of their sweet song.We all pearls scorn,Save what the dewy mornCongeals upon each little spire of grass,Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass:And gold ne'er here appears,Save what the yellow Ceres bears,Blest silent groves, oh may ye be,For ever, mirth's best nursery !May pure contentsFor ever pitch their tentsUpon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains.And peace still slumber by these purling fountains:Which we may, every year,Meet when we come a-fishing here.””

— Izaak Walton

“When I would beget content and increase confidence in the power and wisdom and providence of Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by some gliding stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, and those very many other little living creatures that are not only created, but fed (man knows not how) by the goodness of the God of nature, and therefore trust in him.””

— Izaak Walton