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Look ! under that broad beech-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 towards their centre, 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, whilst 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 possess my soul
with
content, that I thought, as the poet has happily express it,
I was for that time lifted above earth:
And possest joys not promis'd in my birth.
As I left this place, and entered into the next field, a second
pleasure
entertained me; 'twas 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.
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