That if my inke was not congeal’d as it,
I’de on the subject shew a poet’s wit.
The fish lye closely in their watry bed,
And find an icy ceiling o’re their head.
They fear no anglers that do lye in wait,
Nor are deceived by the alluring bait.
The watermen with folded arms doe stand,
And grieve to see the water firm as land,
Their boats hal’d up, their oars laid useless by,
Nor oars, nor skuller, master, do they cry,