VII. Men's fcorns fhould rather joy than forrow move! For then thou highest art when thou art down. Their forms of hate fhould more blow up my love; Their laughters my applause, their mocks my crown. Sorrow for him, and shame let me betide, Thelgon, 'tis not myfelf for whom I plain; But who can blame my grief, or chide my fear, IX. Little know they the fisher's toilfome pain, Whofe labour with his age, still growing, spends not; His care and watchings (oft mispent in vain) Ah, wretched fifhers! born to hate and ftrife 3 To others good, but to your rape and spoil. This is the briefeft sum of fisher's life, To fweat, to freeze, to watch, to faft, to toil Hated to love, to live defpis'd, forlorn; A forrow to himself, all others' fcorn. XI. Thelgon. Too well I know the fisher's thanklefs pain; Chromis, how many fishers doft thou know, That rule their boats, and use their nets aright? That neither wind, nor time, nor tide foreflow? Such fome have been; but, ah! by tempests' spite, Their boats are loft; while we may fit and moan, That few were such, and now thofe few are none. Ff |