Fragment from the Berenice

Ye that would fain net fish and wealth withal,
  For bare existence harrowing yonder mere,
  To this our Lady slay at even-fall
  That holy fish, which, since it hath no peer
  For gloss and sheen, the dwellers about here
  Have named the Silver Fish. This done, let down
  Your nets, and draw them up, and never fear
  To find them empty * * * *