_Ven._ On my word, master, this is a gallant trout; what shall we do
with him?
_Pisc._ Marry, e’en eat him to supper: we’ll go to my hostess, from
whence we came; she told me, as I was going out of door, that my brother
Peter, a good angler, and a cheerful companion, had sent word he would
lodge there to-night, and bring a friend with him. My hostess has two
beds, and I know you and I may have the best. We’ll rejoice with my
brother Peter and his friend, tell tales, or sing ballads, or make a
catch, or find some harmless sport to content us, and pass away a little
time without offense to God or man.
_Ven._ A match, good master: let’s go to that house, for the linen looks
white, and smells of lavender, and I long to lie in a pair of sheets
that smell so. Let’s be going, good master, for I am hungry again with
fishing.
_Pisc._ Nay, stay a little, good scholar; I caught my last trout with a
worm. Now I will put on a minnow, and try a quarter of an hour about
yonder trees for another, and so walk toward our lodging. Look you,
scholar, thereabout we shall have a bite presently, or not at all. Have
with you, sir, o’ my word I have hold of him. Oh, it is a great
loggerheaded
chub; come, hang him upon that willow twig, and let’s be going. But turn
out of the way a little, good scholar, toward yonder high honeysuckle
hedge; there we’ll sit and sing while this shower falls so gently upon
the teeming earth, and gives yet a sweeter smell to the lovely flowers
that adorn these verdant meadows.
Look! under that broad beach-tree I sat down when I was last this way a
fishing, and the birds in the adjoining grove seemed to have a friendly
contention with an echo, whose dead voice seemed to live in a hollow
tree, near to the brow of that primrose hill; there I sat viewing the
silver streams glide silently toward their center, the tempestuous sea,
yet sometimes opposed by rugged roots and pebble-stones, which broke
their waves and turned them into foam; and sometimes I beguiled time by
viewing the harmless lambs—some leaping securely in the cool shade,
while others sported themselves in the cheerful sun; and saw others
craving comfort from the swollen udders of their bleating dams. As I
thus sat, these and other sights had so fully possessed my soul with
content, that I thought, as the poet has happily expressed it,
“I was for that time lifted above earth,
And possess’d joys not promis’d in my birth.”
As I left this place, and entered into the next field, a second pleasure
entertained me; it was a handsome milk-maid, that had not yet attained
so much age and wisdom as to load her mind with any fears of many things
that will never be, as too many men too often do; but she cast away all
care, and sung like a nightingale: her voice was good, and the ditty
fitted for it; it was that smooth song which was made by Kit Marlow, now
at least fifty years ago; and the milk-maid’s mother sung an answer to
it, which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh in his younger days.
They were old-fashioned poetry, but choicely good—I think much better
than the strong lines that are now in fashion in this critical age. Look
yonder! on my word, yonder they both be, a milking again. I will give
her the chub, and persuade them to sing those two songs to us.
God speed you, good woman! I have been a fishing, and am going to
Bleak-Hall to my bed, and having caught more fish than will sup myself
and my friend, I will bestow this upon you and your daughter, for I use
to sell none.
_Milk-W._ Marry, God requite you, sir, and we’ll eat it cheerfully; and
if you come this way a fishing two months hence, o’ grace of God, I’ll
give you a syllabub of new verjuice, in a new-made hay-cock for it, and
my Maudlin shall sing you one of her best ballads; for she and I both
love all anglers, they be such honest, civil, quiet men. In the mean
time, will you drink a draught of red cow’s milk? you shall have it
freely.
_Pisc._ No, I thank you; but I pray do us a courtesy that shall stand
you and your daughter in nothing, and yet we will think ourselves still
something in your debt: it is but to sing us a song that was sung by
your daughter when I last passed over this meadow about eight or nine
days since.
_Milk-M._ What song was it, I pray? Was it, “Come, Shepherds, Deck your
Heads?” or “As at Noon Dulcina Rested?” or “Phillida, Flout me?” or
“Chevy Chase?” or “Johnny Armstrong?” or “Troy Town?”
_Pisc._ It is none of those; it is a song that your daughter sung the
first part, and you sung the answer to it.
_Milk-W._ O, I know it now; I learned the first part in my golden age,
when I was about the age of my poor daughter; and the latter part—which
indeed fits me best now—but two or three years ago, when the cares of
the world began to take hold of me; but you shall, God willing, hear
them both, and sung as well as we can, for we both love anglers. Come,
Maudlin, sing the first part to the gentlemen with a merry heart, and
I’ll sing the second when you have done: