Through discontent of my long fruitless stay
In prince's court, and
Of idle hopes, which still do fly away
shadows, did afflict my brain),
Walk'd forth to ease my pain
shore of silver-streaming Thames;
To retrospection doth incline;
“A faultless figure, watchet eyes
As sweet as early summer skies !
What pretty hands, what subtle grace,
And what a winsome little face !”
In the Anglers’ driest sherry
He toasts the lass of Walton Ferry !