The fish is lively, though he's wearied quite.
And shakes, not now with cold alone, but fright,
For every tree he fancies is a sprite.
His sport, I fear, is not unmix'd delight.
He once or twice had drawn the line up tight,
And thought by strength to drag the fish out right,
But feared that, p'rhaps, it like the other might
Escape; so slackening, granted a respite
To Jack, who, rushing forth with new delight,
Seemed much astonished at this act polite.