Classic Poem

Whilst in this cold and blust'ring Clime,
 Where bleak winds howl, and Tempests roar,
We pass away the roughest time
 Has been of many years before;

Whilst from the most tempest'ous Nooks
 The chillest Blasts our peace invade,
And by great Rains our smallest Brooks
 Are almost navigable made;

Whilst all the ills are so improv'd
 Of this dead quarter of the year,
That even you, so much belov'd,
 We would not now wish with us here;

In this estate, I say, it is
 Some comfort to us to suppose,
That in a better Clime than this
 You our dear Friend have more repose;

And some delight to me the while,
 Though nature now does weep in Rain,
To think that I have seen her smile,
 And haply may I do again.

If the all-ruling Power please
 We live to see another May ,
We'll recompence an Age of these
 Foul days in one fine fishing day:

We then shall have a day or two,
 Perhaps a week, wherein to try,
What the best Master's hand can doe
 With the most deadly killing Flie;

A day without too bright a Beam,
 A warm, but not a scorching Sun,
A Southern gale to curl the Stream,
 And (Master) half our work is done.

There whilst behind some bush we wait
 The Scaly People to betray,
We'll prove it just with treach'rous Bait
 To make the preying Trout our prey;

And think our selves in such an hour
 Happier than those, though not so high,
Who, like Leviathans, devour
 Of meaner men the smaller Fry.

This (my best Friend) at my poor Home
 Shall be our Pastime and our Theme,
But then should you not deign to come
 You make all this a flatt'ring Dream.