And now, sing when you will.
Piscator. Well then, here s to you, Coridon; and now for my song.
O the gallant Fisher's life,
It is the best of any;
'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife,
And 'tis beloved of many:
Other joys
Are but toys;
Only this
Lawful is;
For our skill
Breeds no ill,
But content and pleasure.
In a morning up we rise
Ere Aurora's peeping,
Drink a cup to wash our eyes.
Leave the sluggard sleeping;
Then we go
To and fro,
With our knacks
At our backs
To such streams
As the Thames
If we have the leisure.
When we please to walk abroad
For our recreation,
In the fields is our abode,
Full of delectation:
Where in a brook
With a hook
Or a lake
Fish we take:
There we sit For a bit,
Till we fish entangle.
We have gentles in a horn,
We have paste and worms too
We can watch both night and morn,
Suffer rain and storms too;
None do here
Use to swear;
Oaths do fray
Fish away;
We sit still,
And watch our quill
Fishers must not wrangle.
If the sun's excessive heat
Make our bodies swelter,
To an osier hedge we get
For a friendly shelter
Where, in a dike,
Perch or Pike
Roach or Dace
We do chase Bleak or Gudgeon,
Without grudging
We are still contented.
Or we sometimes pass an hour
Under a green willow,
That defends us from a shower,
Making earth our pillow;
Where we may
Think and pray
Before death
Stops our breath.
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