“Celladon, when spring came on,
   Woo’d Sylvia in a grove,
   Both gay and young, and still he sung
   The sweet Delights of Love. 
   Wedded joys in girls and boys,
   And pretty chat of this and that,
   The honey kiss, and charming bliss
   That crowns the marriage bed;
   He snatched her hand, she blushed and fanned
   And seemed as if afraid,
   ‘Forbear!’ she crys, ’youre fawning lyes,
   I’ve vowed to die a maid.’

  “Celladon at that began
   To talk of apes in hell,
   And what was worse, the odious curse
   Of growing old and stale. 
   Loss of bloom, when wrinkles come,
   And offers kind when none will mind,
   The rosie joy, and sparkling eye
   Grown faded and decayed,
   At which, when known, she changed her tone,
   And to the shepherd said,
   ’Dear swain, give o’er, I’ll think once more,
   Before I’ll die a maid.’”

D’Urfey was a disciple of the “gentle art.”  Addison says “I must not omit that my friend angles for a trout, the best of any man in England.  Mayflies come in late this season, or I myself should have had one of his hooking.”  We can thus understand his enthusiastic commendation of fishing—­

  “Of all the world’s enjoyments,
   That ever valu’d were,
   There’s none of our employments,
   With fishing can compare;
   Some preach, some write,
   Some swear, some fight,
   All golden lucre courting,
   But fishing still bears off the bell
   For profit or for sporting.

  “Chorus.—­Then who a jolly fisherman, a fisherman will be? 
    His throat must wet,
    Just like his net,
    To keep out cold at sea.

  “The country squire loves running
   A pack of well-mouthed hounds,
   Another fancies gunning
   For wild ducks in his grounds;
   This hunts, that fowls,
   This hawks, Dick bowls,
   No greater pleasure wishing,
   But Tom that tells what sport excels,
   Gives all the praise to fishing. 
     Then who, &c.

  “A good Westphalia gammon
   Is counted dainty fare;
   But what is’t to a salmon
   Just taken from the Ware;
   Wheat-ears and quailes,
   Cocks, snipes and rayles,
   Are prized while season’s lasting,
   But all must stoop to crawfish soup,
   Or I’ve no skill in casting. 
     Then who, &c.

  “And tho’ some envious wranglers,
   To jeer us will make bold,
   And laugh at patient anglers,
   Who stand so long i’ th’ cold;
   They wait on Miss,
   We wait on this,
   And think it easie labour;
   And if you know, fish profits too,
   Consult our Holland neighbour. 
     Then who, &c.”

D’Urfey was a favourite with Queen Anne, and many of his poems were written at Knole, Penshurst, and other seats of the nobility.