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<poem> But at the last the Iron Age drew near, Of all the rest the hardest and most scant: Then lines were made of silk and subtle hair; And rods of lightest cane and hazel plant; And hooks of hardest steel invented were, That neither skill nor workmanship did want;
And so this Art did in the end attain Unto that state where now it doth remain.
But here my weary Muse awhile must rest That is not usèd to so long a way; And breathe or pause a little at the least At this land's end, until another day: And then again, if so she think it best Our taken-task afresh we will assay;
And forward go as first we did intend Till that we come unto our journey's end.
The end of the First Book.
