[He flicks his fly for ten minutes.  Enter BOY on Bridge.  ANGLUS makes his cast, too short.  BOY heaves a great stone from the Bridge.  Exit GEORGE.  Exit BOY.

Anglus.—­Oh, Mass! verily the angler had need of patience!  Yonder boy hath spoiled my sport, and were it not that swearing frights the fish, I could find it in my heart to say an oath or twain.  But, ha, here come the swallows, hawking low on the stream.  Now, were but my Scholar here, I could impart to him much honest lore concerning the swallow, and other birds.  But where she hawks, there fly must be, and fish will rise, and, look you, I do mark the trout feeding in yonder ford below the plank bridge.

[ANGLUS steals off, and gingerly takes up his position.

Anglus.—­Marry, that is a good trout under the burdock!

[He is caught up in the burdock, and breaks his tackle.

Anglus.—­Now to knot a fresh cast.  Marry, but they are feeding gaily!  How kindly is the angler’s life; he harmeth no fish that swims, yet the Spectator deemeth ours a cruel sport.  Ah, good Master Townsend and learned Master Hutton, little ye wot of our country contents.  So, I am ready again, and this Whitchurch dun will beguile yonder fish, I doubt not.  Marry, how thick the flies come, and how the fish do revel in this merciful provender that Heaven sendeth!  Verily I know not at which of these great fellows to make my essay.

[Enter twenty-four callow young ducks, swimming up stream.  The ducks chevy the flies, taking them out of the very mouths of the trout.

Anglus.—­Oh, mercy.  I have hooked a young duck!  Where is my landing-net?  Nay, I have left it under yonder elm!

[He struggles with the young duck.  By the conclusion of the fray the Rise is over.

Anglus.—­I have saved my fly, but lo, the trout have ceased to feed, and will rise no more till after sunset.  Well, “a merry heart goes all the way!” And lo, here comes my Scholar.  Ho, runaway, how have you sped?

Scotus.—­Not ill.  Here be my spoils, great ones; but how faint-hearted are your southern trout!

Anglus.—­That fat fellow is a good three pounds by the scales.  But, Scholar, with what fly caught ye these, and where?

Scotus.—­Marry, Master, in a Mill-tail, where the water lagged not, but ran free as it doth in bonny Scotland; nor with no fly did I grip him, but with an artificial penk, or minnow.  It was made by a handsome woman that had a fine hand, and wrought for Master Brown, of Aberdeen.  The mould, or body of the minnow, is of parchment, methinks, and he hath fins of copper, all so curiously dissembled that it will beguile any sharp-sighted trout in a swift stream.  Men call it a Phantom, Master; wilt thou not try my Phantom?

Anglus.—­Begone, sirrah.  I took thee for an angler, and thou art but a poaching knave!

Scotus.—­Knave thyself!  I will break thy head!