An Angler

Now as an angler melancholy standing
Upon a green bank yielding room for landing,
A wriggling yellow worm thrust on his hook,
Now in the midst he throws, then in a nook:
Here pulls his line, there throws it in again,
Mendeth his cork and bait, but all in vain,
He long stands viewing of the curled stream;
At last a hungry pike, or well-grown bream
Snatch at the worm, and hasting fast away,
He knowing it a fish of stubborn sway,
Pulls up his rod, but soft, as having skill,
Wherewith the hook fast holds the fish's gill;
Then all his line he freely yieldeth him,
Whilst furiously all up and down doth swim
Th' insnared fish, here on the top doth scud,
There underneath the banks, then in the mud,
And with his frantic fits so scares the shoal,
That each one takes his hide, or starting hole:
By this the pike, clean wearied, underneath
A willow lies.

From Britannia's Pastorals.

William Browne

William Browne (1590–1645) was an English poet from Tavistock, Devon. Best known for his pastoral poetry, Browne's notable works include 'Britannia's Pastorals'. His poetry reflects the influence of Edmund Spenser and his themes often revolve around nature, rural life, and patriotic sentiments. Although his work was not widely known during his time, it has since gained recognition for its lyrical quality and depiction of English countryside traditions.

William Browne

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William Browne, Simple Poetry

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William Browne, Simple Poetry

To England

William Browne, Simple Poetry

English

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"Resigned, I kissed the rod."


Well! I think it is time to put up!
For it does not accord with my notions,
Wrist, elbow, and chine,
Stiff from throwing the line,
To take nothing at last by my motions!

I ground-bait my way as I go,
And dip in at each watery dimple;
But however I wish
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To my gentle they will not play simple!

Though my float goes so swimmingly on,
My bad luck never seems to diminish;
It would seem that the Bream
Must be scarce in the stream,
And the Chub, tho' it's chubby, be thinnish!

Not a Trout there can be in the place,
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On the far hill the cloud of thunder grew
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In the vole's empty house, still drove afield
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Wallowing in this bloody sty,
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A calendar to tell the day;
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Once fishing was a rabbit's foot,
O wind blow cold, O wind blow hot,
Let suns stay in or suns step out:
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In early days, when streams ran pure,
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The finny tribes, of varied kinds,
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So swift to dash, and quick to see,
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This fish had a way that would win him a place
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