The church-door was open and I stepped in. There hung the chaplet
of flowers and the gloves, as on the day of the funeral: the
flowers were withered, it is true, but care seemed to have been
taken that no dust should soil their whiteness. I have seen many
monuments where art has exhausted its powers to awaken the
sympathy of the spectator, but I have met with none that spoke
more touchingly to my heart than this simple but delicate memento
of departed innocence.
THE ANGLER.
This day Dame Nature seem'd in love,
The lusty sap began to move,
Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines,
And birds had drawn their valentines.
The jealous trout that low did lie,
Rose at a well-dissembled flie.
There stood my friend, with patient skill,
Attending of his trembling quill.
SIR H. WOTTON.
IT is said that many an unlucky urchin is induced to run away
from his family and betake himself to a seafaring life from
reading the history of Robinson Crusoe; and I suspect that, in
like manner, many of those worthy gentlemen who are given to
haunt the sides of pastoral streams with angle-rods in hand may
trace the origin of their passion to the seductive pages of
honest Izaak Walton.
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