So, slow Bo?tes underneath him sees
In th' icy isles those goslings hatch'd of trees;
Whose fruitful leaves, falling into the water,
Are turn'd, they say, to living fowls soon after.
So, rotten sides of broken ships do change
To barnacles. O transformation strange!
'Twas first a green tree; then, a gallant hull;
Lately a mushroom; now, a flying gull.
Venator. O my good master, this morning-walk has been spent to my
great pleasure and wonder: but, I pray, when shall I have your direction
how to make artificial flies, like to those that the Trout loves best; and,
also, how to use them ?
Piscator. My honest scholar, it is now past five of the clock: we will
fish till nine; and then go to breakfast. Go you to yonder sycamore-tree,
and hide your bottle of drink under the hollow root of it; for about that
time, and in that place, we will make a brave breakfast with a piece of
powdered beef, and a radish or two, that I have in my fish bag: we shall,
I warrant you, make a good, honest, wholesome hungry breakfast. And I
will then give you direction for the making and using of your flies: and
in the meantime, there is your rod and line; and my advice is, that you
fish as you see me do, and let's try which can catch the first fish.
Venator. I thank you, master. I will observe and practice your direction
as far as I am able.
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