Song 26

115

❧ The sixe and twentieth Song.

✼ THE ARGUMENT.

Three Shires at once this Song assayes,
By various and unusuall wayes.
At Nottingham first comming in,
The Vale of Bever doth begin;
Tow’rds Lester then her course shee holds,
And sayling o’r the pleasant Oulds,
Shee fetcheth Soare downe from her Springs,
By Charnwood, which to Trent shee brings,
Then showes the Braveries of that Flood,
Makes Sherwood sing her Robin Hood;
Then rouzes up the aged Peake,
And of her Wonders makes her speake:
Thence Darwin downe by Darby tends,
And at her fall, to Trent, it ends.

ow scarcely on this Tract the Muse had entrance made,
Enclining to the South, but Bevers batning Slade
Receiveth her to Guest, whose comming had too long
Put off her rightfull praise, when thus her selfe she sung.
Three Shires there are (quoth she) in me their parts that claime,
Large Lincolne, Rutland Rich, and th’Norths Eye Nottingham.
But in the last of these since most of me doth lye,
To that my most-lov’d Shire my selfe I must apply.
Not Evsham that proud Nymph, although she still pretend 		The Vale of Bever
bordreth upon 3. Shires.
Her selfe the first of Vales, and though abroad she send
Her awfull dread Command, that all should tribute pay
To her as our great Queene; nor White-horse, though her Clay
Of silver seeme to be, new melted, nor the Vale
Of Alsbury, whose grasse seemes given out by tale,
For it so Silken is, nor any of our kind,
Or what, or where they be, or howsoere inclind, 		Not a more pleasant
Vale in all great
Britaine, then Bever.
POLY-OLBION, 116
Me Bever shall outbrave, that in my state doe scorne,
By any of them all (once) to be overborne,
With theirs, doe but compare the Country where I lye,
My Hill, and Oulds will say, they are the Islands eye.
Consider next my Scite, and say it doth excell;
Then come unto my Soyle, and you shall see it swell,
With every Grasse and Graine, that Britaine forth can bring:
I challenge any Vale, to shew me but that thing
I cannot shew to her, (that truly is mine owne)
Besides I dare thus boast, that I as farre am knowne,
As any of them all, the South their names doth sound,
The spacious North doth mee, that there is scarcely found
A roomth for any else, it is so fild with mine,
Which but a little wants of making me divine:
Nor barren am of Brookes, for that I still reteine
Two neat and daintie Rills, the little Snyte, and Deane,
That from the lovely Oulds, their beautious parent sprong
From the Lecestrian fields, come on with me along,
Till both within one Banke, they on my North are meint,
And where I end, they fall, at Newarck, into Trent.
Hence wandring as the Muse delightfully beholds
The beautie of the large, and goodly full-flockd Oulds,
Shee on the left hand leaves old Lecester, and flyes,
Untill the fertile earth glut her insatiate eyes,
From Rich to Richer still, that riseth her before,
Untill shee come to cease upon the head of Soare,
Where * Fosse, and Watling cut each other in their course
At * Sharnford, where at first her soft and gentle sourse,
To her but shallow Bankes, beginneth to repayre,
Of all this beautious Isle, the delicatest ayre;
Whence softly sallying out, as loath the place to leave,
Shee Sence a pretty Rill doth courteously receive:
For Swift, a little Brooke, which certainly shee thought
Downe to the Banks of Trent, would safely her have brought,
Because their native Springs so neerely were allyde,
Her sister Soare forsooke, and wholly her applide
To Avon, as with her continually to keepe,
And wayt on her along to the Sabrinian deepe.
Thus with her hand-mayd Sence, the Soare doth eas’ly slide
By Lecester, where yet her ruines show her pride,
Demolisht many yeares, that of the great foundation
Of her long buried walls, men hardly see the station;
Yet of some pieces found, so sure the Cyment locks
The stones, that they remaine like perdurable rocks:
Where whilst the lovely Soare, with many a deare imbrace,
Is solacing her selfe with this delightfull place, 		The 2. famous Wayes
of England. See to the
13. Song.
A little Village at the
rising of Soare.
The sixe and twentieth Song. 117
The Forrest, which the name of that brave Towne doth beare,
With many a goodly wreath, crownes her disheveld hayre,
And in her gallant Greene, her lusty Livery showes
Her selfe to this faire Flood, which mildly as shee flowes,
Reciprocally likes her length and breadth to see,
As also how shee keepes her fertile purlues free:
The Herds of Fallow Deere shee on the Launds doth feed,
As having in her selfe to furnish every need.
But now since gentle Soare, such leasure seemes to take,
The Muse in her behalfe this strong defence doth make,
Against the neighbour floods, for that which tax her so,
And her a Channell call, because she is so slow.
The cause is that shee lyes upon so low a Flat,
Where nature most of all befriended her in that,
The longer to enjoy the good she doth possesse:
For had those (with such speed that forward seeme to presse)
So many dainty Meads, and Pastures theirs to be,
They then would wish themselves to be as slow as she,
Who well may be compar’d to some young tender Mayd,
Entring some Princes Court, which is for pompe arayd, 		Lecester Forrest.
Who led from roome to roome amazed is to see
The furnitures and states, which all Imbroyderies be,
The rich and sumptuous Beds, with Tester-covering plumes,
And various as the Sutes, so various the perfumes,
Large Galleries, where piece with piece doth seeme to strive,
Of Pictures done to life, Landskip, and Perspective,
Thence goodly Gardens sees, where Antique Statues stand
In Stone and Copper, cut by many a skilfull hand,
Where every thing to gaze, her more and more entices,
Thinking at once shee sees a thousand Paradices,
Goes softly on, as though before she saw the last,
She long’d againe to see, what she had slightly past.
So the enticing Soyle the Soare along doth lead,
As wondring in her selfe, at many a spacious Mead;
When Charnwood from the rocks salutes her wished sight,
(Of many a Wood-god woo’d) her darling and delight,
Whose beautie whilst that Soare is pawsing to behold
Cleere Wreakin comming in, from Waltham on the Ould,
Brings Eye, a pretty Brooke, to beare her silver traine,
Which on by Melton make, and tripping o’r the Plaine,
Here finding her surpriz’d with proud Mount-Sorrels sight,
By quickning of her Course, more eas’ly doth invite
Her to the goodly Trent, where as she goes along
By Loughborough, she thus of that faire Forrest sung.
O Charnwood, be thou cald the choycest of thy kind,
The like in any place, what Flood hath hapt to find? 		A Simily of Soare.
POLY-OLBION, 118
No Tract in all this Isle, the proudest let her be,
Can shew a Sylvan Nymph, for beautie like to thee:
The Satyrs, and the Fawnes, by Dian set to keepe,
Rough Hilles, and Forrest holts, were sadly seene to weepe,
When thy high-palmed Harts the sport of Bowes and Hounds,
By gripple Borderers hands, were banished thy grounds.
The Driades that were wont about thy Lawnes to rove,
To trip from Wood to Wood, and scud from Grove to Grove,
On * Sharpley that were seene, and * Cadmans aged rocks,
Against the rising Sunne, to brayd their silver locks; 		Two mightie Rocks in
the Forrest.
And with the harmelesse Elves, on Heathy * Bardons height,
By Cynthia’s colder beames to play them night by night,
Exil’d their sweet aboad, to poore bare Commons fled,
They with the Okes that liv’d, now with the Okes are dead.
Who will describe to life, a Forrest, let him take
Thy Surface to himselfe, nor shall he need to make
An other forme at all, where oft in thee is found
Fine sharpe but easie Hills, which reverently are crownd
With aged Antique Rocks, to which the Goats and Sheepe,
(To him that stands remoat) doe softly seeme to creepe,
To gnaw the little shrubs, on their steepe sides that grow;
Upon whose other part, on some descending Brow,
Huge stones are hanging out, as though they downe would drop,
Where under-growing Okes, on their old shoulders prop
The others hory heads, which still seeme to decline,
And in a Dimble neere, (even as a place divine,
For Contemplation fit) an Iuy-seeled Bower,
As Nature had therein ordayn’d some Sylvan power; 		A Hill in the Forrest.
As men may very oft at great Assemblies see,
Where many of most choyce, and wondred Beauties be:
For Stature one doth seeme the best away to beare;
Another for her Shape, to stand beyond compare;
Another for the fine composure of a face:
Another short of these, yet for a modest grace
Before them all preferd; amongst the rest yet one,
Adjudg’d by all to bee, so perfect Paragon,
That all those parts in her together simply dwell,
For which the other doe so severally excell.
My Charnwood like the last, hath in her selfe alone,
What excellent can be in any Forrest showne,
On whom when thus the Soare had these high praises spent,
She easily slid away into her Soveraigne Trent,
Who having wandred long, at length began to leave
Her native Countries bounds, and kindly doth receive
The lesser Tame, and Messe, the Messe a daintie Rill,
Neere Charnwood rising first, where she begins to fill 		A Simily of
Charnwood Forrest.
The sixe and twentieth Song. 119
Her Banks, which all her course on both sides doe abound
With Heath and Finny olds, and often gleaby ground,
Till Croxals fertill earth doth comfort her at last
When shee is entring Trent; but I was like t’ave past
The other Sence, whose source doth rise not farre from hers,
By Ancor, that her selfe to famous Trent prefers,
The second of that name, allotted to this Shire,
A name but hardly found in any place but here;
Nor is to many knowne, this Country that frequent.
But Muse returne at last, attend the princely Trent,
Who straining on in state, the Norths imperious Flood,
The third of England cald, with many a daintie Wood,
Being crown’d to Burton comes, to Needwood where she showes
Her selfe in all her pompe; and as from thence she flowes,
Shee takes into her Traine rich Dove, and Darwin cleere,
Darwin, whose fount and fall are both in Darbysheere;
And of those thirtie Floods, that wayt the Trent upon,
Doth stand without compare, the very Paragon.
Thus wandring at her will, as uncontrould shee ranges,
Her often varying forme, as variously and changes.
First Erwash, and then Lyne, sweet Sherwood sends her in;
Then looking wyde, as one that newly wak’d had bin,
Saluted from the North, with Nottinghams proud height,
So strongly is surpriz’d, and taken with the sight,
That shee from running wild, but hardly can refraine,
To view in how great state, as she along doth straine,
That brave exalted seat, beholdeth her in pride,
As how the large-spread Meads upon the other side,
All flourishing in Flowers, and rich embroyderies drest,
In which she sees her selfe above her neighbours blest.
As rap’d with the delights, that her this Prospect brings,
In her peculiar praise, loe thus the River sings.
What should I care at all, from what my name I take, 		Two Rivers of one
name in one Shire.
That Thirtie doth import, that thirty Rivers make;
My greatnesse what it is, or thirty Abbayes great,
That on my fruitfull Banks, times formerly did seat:
Or thirtie kinds of Fish, that in my Streames doe live,
To me this name of Trent did from that number give.
What reack I: let great Thames, since by his fortune he
Is Soveraigne of us all that here in Britaine be;
From Isis, and old Tame, his Pedigree derive:
And for the second place, proud Severne that doth strive,
Fetch her discent from Wales, from that proud Mountaine sprung,
Plinillimon, whose praise is frequent them among,
As of that princely Mayd, whose name she boasts to beare,
Bright Sabrin, which she holds as her undoubted heyre. 		Whence Trent is
supposed to derive her
name. See to the 12.
Song.
POLY-OLBION, 120
Let these imperious Floods draw downe their long discent
From these so famous Stocks, and only say of Trent,
That Moorelands barren earth me first to light did bring,
Which though she be but browne, my cleere complexiond Spring,
Gain’d with the Nymphs such grace, that when I first did rise,
The Naiades on my brim, danc’d wanton Hydagies,
And on her spacious breast, with Heaths that doth abound)
Encircled my faire Fount with many a lustie round:
And of the British Floods, though but the third I be,
Yet Thames, and Severne both in this come short of me,
For that I am the Mere of England, that divides
The North part from the South, on my so either sides,
That reckoning how these Tracts in compasse be extent,
Men bound them on the North, or on the South of Trent;
Their Banks are barren Sands, if but compar’d with mine,
Through my perspicuous Breast, the pearly Pebbles shine:
I throw my Christall Armes along the Flowry Vallies,
Which lying sleeke, and smooth, as any Garden-Allies,
Doe give me leave to play, whilst they doe Court my Streame,
And crowne my winding banks with many an Anademe:
My Silver-scaled Skuls about my Streames doe sweepe,
Now in the shallow foords, now in the falling Deepe:
So that of every kind, the new-spawn’d numerous Frie
Seeme in me as the Sands that on my Shore doe lye.
The Barbell, then which Fish, a braver doth not swimme,
Nor greater for the Ford within my spacious brimme,
Nor (newly taken) more the curious taste doth please;
The Greling, whose great Spawne is big as any Pease;
The Pearch with pricking Finnes, against the Pike prepar’d,
As Nature had thereon bestow’d this stronger guard,
His daintinesse to keepe, (each curious pallats proofe)
From his vile ravenous foe: next him I name the Ruffe,
His very neere Ally, and both for scale and Fin,
In taste, and for his Bayte (indeed) his next of kin;
The pretty slender Dare, of many cald the Dace,
Within my liquid glasse, when Phœbus lookes his face,
Oft swiftly as he swimmes, his silver belly showes,
But with such nimble slight, that ere yee can disclose
His shape, out of your sight like lightning he is shot.
The Trout by Nature markt with many a Crimson spot,
As though shee curious were in him above the rest,
And of fresh-water Fish, did note him for the best;
The Roche, whose common kind to every Flood doth fall;
The Chub, (whose neater name) which some a Chevin call,
Food to the Tyrant Pyke, (most being in his power)
Who for their numerous store he most doth them devoure;
The sixe and twentieth Song. 121
The lustie Salmon then, from Neptunes watry Realme,
When as his season serves, stemming my tydefull Streame,
Then being in his kind, in me his pleasure takes,
(For whom the Fisher then all other Game forsakes)
Which bending of himselfe to th’fashion of a Ring,
Above the forced Weares, himselfe doth nimbly fling,
And often when the Net hath dragd him safe to land,
Is seene by naturall force to scape his murderers hand;
Whose graine doth rise in flakes, with fatnesse interlarded,
Of many a liquorish lip, that highly is regarded.
And Humber, to whose waste I pay my watry store,
Me of her Sturgeons sends, that I thereby the more
Should have my beauties grac’d, with some thing from him sent:
Not Ancums silvered Eele exceedeth that of Trent;
Though the sweet-smelling Smelt be more in Thames then me,
The Lamprey, and his * Lesse, in Severne generall be;
The Flounder smooth and flat, in other Rivers caught,
Perhaps in greater store, yet better are not thought:
The daintie Gudgeon, Loche, the Minnow, and the Bleake,
Since they but little are, I little need to speake
Of them, nor doth it fit mee much of those to reck,
Which every where are found in every little Beck;
Nor of the Crayfish here, which creepes amongst my stones,
From all the rest alone, whose shell is all his bones:
For Carpe, the Tench, and Breame, my other store among,
To Lakes and standing Pooles, that chiefly doe belong,
Here scowring in my Foards, feed in my waters cleere,
Are muddy Fish in Ponds to that which they are heere.
From Nottingham, neere which this River first begun,
This Song, she the meane while, by Newarke having run,
Receiving little Snyte, from Bevers batning grounds,
At Gaynsborough goes out, where the Lincolnian bounds.
Yet Sherwood all this while not satisfi’d to show
Her love to princely Trent, as downward shee doth flow,
Her Meden and her Man, shee downe from Mansfield sends
To Idle for her ayd, by whom she recommends
Her love to that brave Queene of waters, her to meet,
When she tow’rds Humber comes, do humbly kisse her feet,
And clip her till shee grace great Humber with her fall.
When Sherwood somewhat backe, the forward Muse doth call;
For shee was let to know, that Soare had in her Song
So chanted Charnwoods worth, the Rivers that along,
Amongst the neighbouring Nymphs, there was no other Layes,
But those which seem’d to sound of Charnwood, and her praise:
Which Sherwood tooke to heart, and very much disdain’d,
(As one that had both long, and worthily maintain’d 		The Lamparne.
POLY-OLBION, 122
The title of the great’st, and bravest of her kind)
To fall so farre below, one wretchedly confin’d
Within a furlongs space, to her large skirts compar’d:
Wherefore shee as a Nymph that neither fear’d, nor car’d
For ought to her might chance, by others love or hate,
With Resolution arm’d, against the power of Fate,
All selfe-praise set apart, determineth to sing
That lustie Robin Hood, who long time like a King
Within her compasse liv’d, and when he list to range
For some rich Booty set, or else his ayre to change,
To Sherwood still retyr’d, his onely standing Court,
Whose praise the Forrest thus doth pleasantly report.
The merry pranks he playd, would aske an age to tell,
And the adventures strange that Robin Hood befell,
When Mansfield many a time for Robin hath bin layd,
How he hath cosned them, that him would have betrayd;
How often he hath come to Nottingham disguisd,
And cunningly escapt, being set to be surprizd.
In this our spacious Isle, I thinke there is not one,
But he hath heard some talke of him and little John;
And to the end of time, the Tales shall ne’r be done,
Of Scarlock, George a Greene, and Much the Millers sonne,
Of Tuck the merry Frier, which many a Sermon made,
In praise of Robin Hood, his Out-lawes, and their Trade.
An hundred valiant men had this brave Robin Hood,
Still ready at his call, that Bow-men were right good,
All clad in Lincolne Greene, with Caps of Red and Blew,
His fellowes winded Horne, not one of them but knew,
When setting to their lips their little Beugles shrill,
The warbling Eccho’s wakt from every Dale and Hill:
Their Bauldricks set with Studs, athwart their shoulders cast,
To which under their armes, their Sheafes were buckled fast,
A short Sword at their Belt, a Buckler scarse a span,
Who strooke below the knee, not counted then a man:
All made of Spanish Yew, their Bowes were wondrous strong;
They not an Arrow drew, but was a cloth-yard long.
Of Archery they had the very perfect craft,
With Broad-arrow, or But, or Prick, or Roving Shaft,
At Markes full fortie score, they us’d to Prick, and Rove,
Yet higher then the breast, for Compasse never strove;
Yet at the farthest marke a foot could hardly win:
At Long-buts, short, and Hoyles, each one could cleave the pin:
Their Arrowes finely pair’d, for Timber, and for Feather,
With Birch and Brazill peec’d, to flie in any weather;
And shot they with the round, the square, or forked Pyle,
The loose gave such a twang, as might be heard a myle. 		Robin Hoods Story.
The sixe and twentieth Song. 123
And of these Archers brave, there was not any one,
But he could kill a Deere his swiftest speed upon,
Which they did boyle and rost, in many a mightie wood,
Sharpe hunger the fine sauce to their more kingly food.
Then taking them to rest, his merry men and hee
Slept many a Summers night under the Greenewood tree.
From wealthy Abbots chests, and Churles abundant store,
What often times he tooke, he shar’d amongst the poore:
No lordly Bishop came in lusty Robins way,
To him before he went, but for his Passe must pay:
The Widdow in distresse he graciously reliev’d,
And remedied the wrongs of many a Virgin griev’d:
He from the husbands bed no married woman wan,
But to his Mistris deare, his loved Marian
Was ever constant knowne, which wheresoere shee came,
Was soveraigne of the Woods, chiefe Lady of the Game:
Her Clothes tuck’d to the knee, and daintie braided haire,
With Bow and Quiver arm’d, shee wandred here and there,
Amongst the Forrests wild; Diana never knew
Such pleasures, nor such Harts as Mariana slew.
Of merry Robin Hood, and of his merrier men,
The Song had scarcely ceas’d, when as the Muse agen
Wades * Erwash, (that at hand) on Sherwoods setting side,
The Nottinghamian Fields, and Derbian doth divide,
And Northward from her Springs, haps Scardale forth to find,
Which like her Mistris Peake, is naturally enclind
To thrust forth ragged Cleeves, with which she scattered lyes,
As busie Nature here could not her selfe suffice,
Of this oft-altring earth the sundry shapes to show,
That from my entrance here, doth rough and rougher grow,
Which of a lowly Dale, although the name it beare,
You by the Rocks might think that it a Mountaine were,
From which it takes the name of Scardale, which exprest,
Is the hard Vale of Rocks, of Chesterfield possest,
By her which is instild; where Rother from her rist,
Ibber, and Crawley hath, and Gunno, that assist
Her weaker wandring Streame tow’rds Yorkeshire as she wends,
So Scardale tow’rds the same, that lovely Iddle sends,
That helps the fertile Seat of Axholme to in-Isle:
But to th’unwearied Muse the Peake appeares the while,
A withered Beldam long, with bleared watrish eyes,
With many a bleake storme dim’d, which often to the Skies
Shee cast, and oft to th’earth bow’d downe her aged head,
Her meager wrinkled face, being sullyed still with lead,
Which sitting in the workes, and poring o’r the Mines,
Which shee out of the Oare continually refines: 		A Riveret parting the
two Shires.
POLY-OLBION, 124
For shee a Chimist was, and Natures secrets knew,
And from amongst the Lead, she Antimony drew,
And Christall there congeal’d, (by her enstyled Flowers)
And in all Medcins knew their most effectuall powers.
The spirits that haunt the Mynes, she could command and tame,
And bind them as she list in Saturns dreadfull name:
Shee Mil-stones from the Quarrs, with sharpned picks could get,
And dainty Whetstones make, the dull-edgd tooles to whet.
Wherefore the Peake as proud of her laborious toyle,
As others of their Corne, or goodnesse of their Soyle,
Thinking the time was long, till shee her tale had told,
Her Wonders one by one, thus plainly doth unfold.
My dreadfull daughters borne, your mothers deare delight,
Great Natures chiefest worke, wherein shee shew’d her might;
Yee darke and hollow Caves, the pourtratures of Hell,
Where Fogs, and misty Damps continually doe dwell;
O yee my onely Joyes, my Darlings, in whose eyes,
Horror assumes her seat, from whose abiding flyes
Thicke Vapours, that like Rugs still hang the troubled ayre,
Yee of your mother Peake, the hope and onely care:
O thou my first and best, of thy blacke Entrance nam’d 		The Peakes Wonders.
The Divels-Arse, in me, O be thou not asham’d,
Nor thinke thy selfe disgrac’d, or hurt thereby at all,
Since from thy horror first men us’d thee so to call:
For as amongst the Moores, the Jettiest blacke are deem’d
The beautifulst of them; so are your kind esteem’d,
The more ye gloomy are, more fearefull and obscure,
(That hardly any eye your sternnesse may endure)
The more yee famous are, and what name men can hit,
That best may ye expresse, that best doth yee befit:
For he that will attempt thy blacke and darksome jawes,
In midst of Summer meets with Winters stormy flawes,
Cold Dewes, that over head from thy foule roofe distill,
And meeteth under foot, with a dead sullen Rill,
That Acheron it selfe, a man would thinke he were
Imediately to passe, and stay’d for Charon there;
Thy Flore drad Cave, yet flat, though very rough it be,
With often winding turnes: then come thou next to me, 		The Divels-arse in the
Peake.
My prettie daughter Poole, my second loved child,
Which by that noble name was happily enstild,
Of that more generous stock, long honor’d in this Shire,
Of which amongst the rest, one being out-law’d here,
For his strong refuge tooke this darke and uncouth place,
An heyre-loome ever since, to that succeeding race:
Whose entrance though deprest below a mountaine steepe,
Besides so very strait, that who will see’t, must creepe 		Pooles Hole.
The sixe and twentieth Song. 125
Into the mouth thereof, yet being once got in,
A rude and ample Roofe doth instantly begin
To raise it selse aloft, and who so doth intend
The length thereof to see, still going must ascend
On mightie slippery stones, as by a winding stayre,
Which of a kind of base darke Alablaster are,
Of strange and sundry formes, both in the Roofe and Floore,
As Nature show’d in thee, what ne’r was seene before.
For Elden thou my third, a Wonder I preferre
Before the other two, which perpendicular
Dive’st downe into the ground, as if an entrance were
Through earth to lead to hell, ye well might judge it here,
Whose depth is so immense, and wondrously profound,
As that long line which serves the deepest Sea to sound,
Her bottome never wrought, as though the vast descent,
Through this Terrestriall Globe directly poynting went
Our Antipods to see, and with her gloomy eyes,
To glote upon those Starres, to us that never rise;
That downe into this hole if that a stone yee throw,
An acres length from thence, (some say that) yee may goe,
And comming backe thereto, with a still listning eare,
May heare a sound as though that stone then falling were.
Yet for her Caves, and Holes, Peake onely not excells,
But that I can againe produce those wondrous Wells
Of Buckston, as I have, that most delicious Fount,
Which men the second Bath of England doe account,
Which in the primer raignes, when first this well began 		Elden Hole.
To have her vertues knowne unto the blest Saint Anne,
Was consecrated then, which the same temper hath,
As that most daintie Spring, which at the famous Bath,
Is by the Crosse enstild, whose fame I much preferre,
In that I doe compare my daintiest Spring to her,
Nice sicknesses to cure, as also to prevent,
And supple their cleare skinnes, which Ladies oft frequent;
Most full, most faire, most sweet, and most delicious sourse. 		Saint Anne of Buckston.
To this a second Fount, that in her naturall course,
As mighty Neptune doth, so doth shee ebbe and flow,
If some Welsh Shires report, that they the like can show.
I answere those, that her shall so no wonder call,
So farre from any Sea, not any of them all.
My Caves, and Fountaines thus delivered you, for change. 		Tydeswell
A little Hill I have, a wonder yet more strange,
Which though it be of light, and almost dusty sand,
Unaltred with the wind, yet firmly doth it stand;
And running from the top, although it never cease,
Yet doth the foot thereof, no whit at all increase. 		Sandy Hill.
POLY-OLBION, 126
Nor is it at the top, the lower, or the lesse,
As Nature had ordain’d, that so its owne excesse,
Should by some secret way within it selfe ascend,
To feed the falling backe; with this yet doe not end
The wonders of the Peake, for nothing that I have,
But it a wonders name doth very justly crave:
A Forrest such have I, (of which when any speake,
Of me they it enstile, The Forrest of the Peake)
Whose Hills doe serve for Brakes, the Rocks for shrubs and trees,
To which the Stag pursu’d, as to the thicket flees;
Like it in all this Isle, for sternnesse there is none,
Where Nature may be said to show you groves of stone,
As she in little there, had curiously compyld
The modell of the vast Arabian stony Wyld.
Then as it is suppos’d, in England that there be
Seven wonders: to my selfe so have I here in me,
My seaven before rehearc’d, allotted me by Fate,
Her greatnesse, as therein ordain’d to imitate.
No sooner had the Peake her seven proud wonders sung,
But Darwin from her Fount, her mothers Hills among,
Through many a crooked way, opposd with envious Rocks,
Comes tripping downe tow’rds Trent, and sees the goodly Flocks
Fed by her mother Peake; and Heards, (for horne and haire,
That hardly are put downe by those of Lancashire,)
Which on her Mountaines sides, and in her Bottoms graze,
On whose delightfull Course, whilst Unknidge stands to gaze,
And looke on her his fill, doth on his tiptoes get,
He Nowstoll plainly sees, which likewise from the Set,
Salutes her, and like friends, to Heaven-Hill farre away,
Thus from their lofty tops, were plainly heard to say.
Faire Hill bee not so proud of thy so pleasant Scite,
Who for thou giv’st the eye such wonderfull delight,
From any Mountaine neere, that glorious name of Heaven,
Thy bravery to expresse, was to thy greatnesse given:
Nor cast thine eye so much on things that be above:
For sawest thou as we doe, our Darwin, thou wouldst love
Her more then any thing, that so doth thee allure;
When Darwin that by this her travell could endure,
Takes Now into her traine, (from Nowstoll her great Sire,
Which shewes to take her name) with many a winding Gyre.
Then wandring through the Wylds, at length the pretty Wye,
From her blacke mother Poole, her nimbler course doth plye
Tow’rds Darwin, and along from Bakewell with her brings
Lathkell a little Brooke, and Headford, whose poore Springs,
But hardly them the name of Riverets can affoord;
When Burbrook with the strength, that Nature hath her stor’d, 		The Peake Forrest.
The sixe and twentieth Song. 127
Although but very small, yet much doth Darwin sted.
At Worksworth on her way, when from the Mynes of Lead,
Browne Eclesborne comes in, then Amber from the East,
Of all the Darbian Nymphs of Darwin lov’d the best,
(A delicater Flood from fountaine never flow’d)
Then comming to the Towne, on which she first bestow’d
Her naturall * British name, her Darby, so againe,
Her, to that ancient Seat, doth kindly intertaine,
Where Marten-Brooke, although an easie shallow Rill,
There offereth all she hath, her Mistris Banks to fill,
And all too little thinks that was on Darwin spent;
From hence as shee departs, in travailing to Trent,
Backe goes the active Muse, tow’rds Lancashire amaine,
Where matter rests ynough her vigor to maintaine,
And to the Northern Hills shall lead her on along,
Which now must wholly bee the subject of my Song. 		Darwin, of the British
Doure Guin, which is
White water. Darby
from thence, as the
place by the water.