Which in the next the fickle trout disdains;
Oft have I seen a skilful angler try
The various colors of the treach’rous fly;
When he “with fruitless pain hath skim’d the brook,
And the coy fish rejects the skipping hook.
He shakes the boughs that on the margin grow,
Which o’er the stream a weaving forest throw;
When if an insect fall (his certain guide)
He gently takes him from the whirling tide;
Examines well his form with curious eyes,