Song 2


The second Song.


The Muse from Marshwood way commands,
Along the shore through Chesills sands:
Where, overtoyld, her heate to coole,
Shee bathes her in the pleasant Poole:
Thence, over-land againe doth scowre,
To fetch in Froome, and bring downe Stowre;
Falls with New-forrest, as she sings
The wanton Wood-Nymphes revellings.
Whilst Itchin in her loftie layes,
Chaunts Bevis of South-hamptons praise,
Shee Southward with her active flight
Is wafted to the Ile of Wight,
To see the rutte the Sea-gods keepe:
There swaggering in the Solent deepe.
Thence Hampshireward her way shee bends;
And visiting her Forrest friends,
Neere Salsbury her rest doth take:
Which shee her second pause doth make.

arch strongly forth my Muse, whilst yet the temperat aire
Invites us, easely on to hasten our repaire.
Thou powerfull God of flames (in verse divinely great)
Touch my invention so with thy true genuine heate,
That high and noble things I slightly may not tell,
Nor light and idle toyes my lines may vainly swell;
But as my subject serves, so hie or lowe to straine,
And to the varying earth so sute my varying vaine,
That Nature in my worke thou maist thy power avow:
That as thou first found’st Art, and didst her rules allow;
So I, to thine owne selfe that gladlie neere would bee,
May herein doe the best, in imitating thee:
As thou hast heere a hill, a vale there, there a flood,
A mead here, there a heath, and now and then a wood,
These things so in my Song I naturally may showe;
Now, as the Mountaine hie; then, as the Valley lowe:
Heere, fruitfull as the Mead, there as the Heath be bare;
Then, as the gloomie wood, I may be rough; though rare.
Through the Dorsetian fields that lie in open view,
My progresse I againe must seriouslie pursue,
From Marshwoods fruitfull Vale my journey on to make:
(As Phoebus getting up out of the Easterne lake,
Refresht with ease and sleepe, is to his labour prest;
Even so the labouring Muse, heere baited with this rest.)
Whereas the little Lim along doth easelie creepe,
And Car, that comming downe unto the troubled Deepe,
Brings on the neighbouring Bert, whose batning mellowed banke,
From all the British soyles, for Hempe most hugely ranke
Doth beare away the best; to Bert-port which hath gain’d
That praise from every place, and worthilie obtain’d
Our cordage from her store, and cables should be made,
Of any in that kind most fit for Marine trade:
Not sever’d from the shore, aloft where Chesill lifts
Her ridged snake-like sands, in wrecks and smouldring drifts,
Which by the South-wind raysd, are heav’d on little hills:
Whose valleys with his flowes when foming Neptune fills,
By Act of Parliament 21.
Hen. 8.
Upon a thousand Swannes the naked Sea-Nymphes ride
Within the ouzie Pooles, replenisht every Tide:
Which running on, the Ile of Portland pointeth out;
Upon whose moisted skirt with sea-weed fring’d about,
The bastard Corall breeds, that drawne out of the brack,
A brittle stalke becomes, from greenish turn’d to black:
§. Which th’Ancients, for the love that they to Isis bare
(Their Goddesse most ador’d) have sacred for her haire.
The beautie of the
many Swannes upon
the Chesills, noted in
this Poëticall
Of which the Naïdes, and the blew a Nereïdes make
Them b Taudries for their necks: when sporting in the Lake,
They to their secrete Bowres the Sea-gods entertaine.
Where Portland from her top doth over-peere the Maine;
Her rugged front empal’d (on every part) with rocks,
Though indigent of wood, yet fraught with woolly flocks:
Most famous for her folke, excelling with the sling,
Of any other heere this Land inhabiting;
That there-with they in warre offensivelie might wound,
If yet the use of shot Invention had not found.
Where, from the neighbouring hills her passage Wey doth path:
Whose haven, not our least that watch the mid-day, hath
The glories that belong unto a complete Port;
Though Wey the least of all the Naïdes that resort
To the Dorsetian sands, from off the higher shore.
Then Frome (a nobler flood) the Muses doth implore
a Sea-Nymphs.
b A kind of neck-laces
worne by country
the Second Song. 25
Her mother Blackmores state they sadly would bewaile;
Whose bigge and lordlie Oakes once bore as brave a saile
As they themselves that thought the largest shades to spred:
But mans devouring hand, with all the earth not fed,
Hath hew’d her Timber downe. Which wounded, when it fell,
By the great noise it made, the workmen seem’d to tell
The losse that to the Land would shortlie come thereby,
Where no man ever plants to our posteritie:
That when sharp Winter shoots her sleet and hardned haile,
Or suddaine gusts from Sea, the harmlesse Deere assaile,
The shrubs are not of power to sheeld them from the wind.
Deere Mother, quoth the Froome, too late (alas) we find
The softness of thy sward continued through thy soile,
To be the onely cause of unrecover’d spoile:
When scarce the British ground a finer grasse doth beare;
And wish I could, quoth shee, (if wishes helpfull were)
§. Thou never by that name of White-hart hadst been known,
But stiled Blackmore still, which rightly was thine owne.
For why, that change foretold the ruine of thy state:
Lo, thus the world may see what tis to innovate.
By this, her owne nam’d * Towne the wandring Froome had past:
And quitting in her course old Dorcester at last,
Approaching neere the Poole, at Warham on her way,
As easelie shee doth fall into the peacefull Bay,
Upon her nobler side, and to the South-ward neere,
Faire Purbeck shee beholds, which no where hath her peere:
So pleasantlie in-Il’d on mightie Neptunes marge,
A Forest-Nymph, and one of chaste Dianas charge,
Imploy’d in Woods and Launds her Deere to feed and kill:
§. On whom the watrie God would oft have had his will,
And often her hath woo’d, which never would be wonne;
But, Purbeck (as profest a Huntresse and a Nunne)
The wide and wealthy Sea, nor all his power respects:
Her Marble-minded breast, impregnable, rejects
* Frampton.
The a uglie Orks, that for their Lord the Ocean wooe.
Whilst Froome was troubled thus where nought shee hath to doe,
The Piddle, that this while bestird her nimble feet,
In falling to the Poole her sister Froome to meet,
And having in her traine two little slender rills
(Besides her proper Spring) where-with her banks shee fills,
To whom since first the world this later name her lent,
a Monsters of the Sea,
supposed Neptunes
Who ancientlie was knowne to be instiled b Trent,
Her small assistant Brookes her second name have gain’d.
Whilst Piddle and the Froome each other entertain’d,
Oft praysing lovely Poole, their best-beloved Bay,
Thus Piddle her bespake, to passe the time away;
b The ancient name of
When Poole (quoth shee) was young, a lustie Sea-borne Lass,
Great Albyon to this Nymph an earnest suter was;
And bare himselfe so well, and so in favour came,
That he in little time, upon this lovelie Dame
§. Begot three mayden Iles, his darlings and delight:
The eldest, Brunksey call’d; the second, Fursey hight;
The youngest and the last, and lesser then the other,
Saint Hellens name doth beare, the dilling of her Mother.
And, for the goodlie Poole was one of Thetis traine,
Who scorn’d a Nymph of hers, her Virgin-band should staine,
Great Albyon (that fore-thought, the angrie Goddesse would
Both on the Dam and brats take what revenge shee could)
I’th bosome of the Poole his little children plac’t:
First, Brunksey; Fursey next; and little Hellen last;
Then, with his mightie armes doth clip the Poole about,
To keepe the angrie Queene, fierce Amphitrite out.
Against whose lordlie might shee musters up her waves;
And strongly thence repulst (with madness) scoulds and raves.
When now, from Poole, the Muse (up to her pitch to get)
Her selfe in such a place from sight doth almost set,
As by the active power of her commanding wings,
She (Falcon-like) from farre doth fetch those plentious Springs.
The storie of Poole.
Where Stour receives her strength from * sixe cleere Fountaines fed;
Which gathering to one streame from every severall head,
Her new-beginning banke her water scarcely weelds;
And fairelie entreth first on the Dorsetian feelds:
Where Gillingham with gifts that for a God were meet
(Enameld paths, rich wreaths, and every soveraine sweet
The earth and ayre can yeeld, with many a pleasure mixt)
Receives her. Whilst there past great kindness them betwixt,
The Forrest her bespoke; How happie floods are yee,
From our predestin’d plagues that priviledged bee;
Which onelie with the fish which in your banks doe breed,
And dailie there increase, mans gurmandize can feed?
But had this wretched Age such uses to imploy
Your waters, as the woods we latelie did enjoy,
Your chanels they would leave as barren by their spoile,
As they of all our trees have lastlie left our soile.
Insatiable Time thus all things doth devour:
What ever saw the sunne, that is not in Times power?
Yee fleeting Streames last long, out-living manie a day:
But, on more stedfast things Time makes the strongest pray.
§. Now tow’rds the Solent sea as Stour her way doth ply,
On Shaftsbury (by chance) shee cast her crystall eye,
From whose foundation first, such strange reports arise
§. As brought into her mind the Eagles prophecies;
* Stour riseth from six
the Second Song. 27
Of that so dreadfull plague, which all great Britaine swept,
From that which highest flew, to that which lowest crept,
Before the Saxon thence the Britaine should expell,
And all that there-upon successively befell.
How then the bloodie Dane subdu’d the Saxon race;
And, next, the Norman tooke possession of the place:
Those ages, once expir’d, the Fates to bring about,
The British Line restor’d; the Norman linage out.
§. Then, those prodigious signes to ponder shee began,
Which afterward againe the Britans wrack fore-ran;
How here the Owle at noone in publique streets was seene,
As though the peopled Townes had way-less Deserts been.
And whilst the loathly Toad out of his hole doth crall,
And makes his fulsome stoole amid the Princes hall,
The crystall fountaine turn’d into a gory wound,
And bloodie issues brake (like ulcers) from the ground;
The Seas against their course with double Tides returne,
And oft were seene by night like boyling pitch to burne.
Thus thinking, livelie Stour bestirres her tow’rds the Maine;
Which Lidden leadeth out: then Dulas beares her traine
From Blackmore, that at once their watry tribute bring:
When, like some childish wench, shee looselie wantoning,
With tricks and giddie turnes seemes to in-Ile the shore.
Betwixt her fishfull banks, then forward shee doth scowre,
Untill shee lastlie reach cleere Alen in her race:
Which calmlie commeth downe from her deere mother c Chase,
Of Cranburn that is call’d; who greatly joyes to see
A Riveret borne of her, for Stours should reckned bee,
Of that renowned flood, a favourite highlie grac’t.
Whilst Cranburn, for her child so fortunatelie plac’t,
With Ecchoes everie way applauds her Alens state,
c Cranburn Chase.
A suddaine noise from d Holt seems to congratulate
With Cranburn for her Brooke so happily bestow’d:
Where, to her neighboring Chase, the curteous Forrest show’d
d Holt Forest.
So just conceived joy, that from each rising a hurst,
Where many a goodlie Oake had carefullie been nurst,
The Sylvans in their songs their mirthfull meeting tell;
And Satyres, that in slades and gloomy dimbles dwell,
Runne whooting to the hills to clappe their ruder hands.
As Holt had done before, so Canfords goodlie Launds
(Which leane upon the Poole) enricht with Coppras vaines,
Rejoyce to see them joyn’d. When downe from Sarum Plaines
Cleere Avon comming in her sister Stour doth call,
§. And at New-forrests foote into the Sea doe fall,
Which every day bewaile that deed so full of dred
Whereby shee (now so proud) became first Forrested:
a A wood in English.
Shee now who for her site even boundless seem’d to lie,
§. Her beeing that receiv’d by Williams tyrannie;
Providing Lawes to keepe those Beasts heere planted then,
Whose lawless will from hence before had driven men;
That where the harth was warm’d with Winters feasting fiers,
The melancholie Hare is form’d in brakes and briers:
The aged ranpick trunk where Plow-men cast their seed,
And Churches over-whelm’d with nettles, ferne and weed,
By Conquering William first cut off from every trade,
That heere the Norman still might enter to invade;
That on this vacant place, and unfrequented shore,
New forces still might land, to ayde those heere before.
But shee, as by a King and Conqueror made so great,
By whom shee was allow’d and limited her seat,
Into her owne-selfe praise most insolently brake,
And her lesse fellow Nymphs, New-forrest, thus bespake:
Thou Buckholt, bow to mee, so let thy sister Bere;
Chute, kneele thou at my name on this side of the Shiere:
Where, for their Goddesse, mee the b Driads shall adore,
With Waltham, and the Bere, that on the Sea-worne shore
See at the Southerne Iles the Tides at tilt to runne;
And Woolmer, placed hence upon the rising sunne,
With Ashholt thine Allie (my Wood-Nymphs) and with you,
Proud Pamber tow’rds the North, ascribe me worship due.
Before my Princelie State let your poore greatness fall:
And vaile your tops to mee, the Soveraigne of you all.
Amongst the Rivers, so, great discontent there fell.
Th’efficient cause thereof (as loud report doth tell)
Was, that the sprightly Test arising up in Chute,
To Itchin, her Allie, great weakeness should impute,
That shee, to her owne wrong, and every others griefe,
Would needs be telling things exceeding all beliefe:
For, she had given it out South-hampton should not loose
§. Her famous Bevis so, wer’t in her power to choose;
§. And, for great Arthurs seat, her Winchester preferres,
Whose old Round-table, yet she vaunteth to be hers:
And swore, th’inglorious time should not bereave her right;
But what it could obscure, she would reduce to light.
The Forests of
Hampshire, with their
b Nymphs that live &
die with Oakes.
For, from that wondrous * Pond, whence shee derives her head,
And places by the way, by which shee’s honored
(Old Winchester, that stands neere in her middle way,
And Hampton, at her fall into the Solent Sea)
Shee thinks in all the Ile not any such as shee,
And for a Demy-god she would related bee.
Sweet sister mine (quoth Test) advise you what you doe;
Thinke this; For each of us, the Forests heere are two:
* A Poole neer unto
Alresford, yeelding an
unusual abundance of
the Second Song. 29
Who, if you speake a thing whereof they hold can take,
Bee’t little, or bee’t much, they double will it make:
Whom Hamble helpeth out; a handsome proper flood,
In curtesie well skild, and one that knew her good.
Consider, quoth this Nymph, the times be curious now,
And nothing of that kind will any way allow.
Besides, the Muse hath, next, the British cause in hand,
About things later done that now shee cannot stand.
The more they her perswade, the more shee doth persist;
Let them say what they will, shee will doe what shee list.
Shee stiles her selfe their Chiefe, and sweares shee will command;
And, what-so-ere shee saith, for Oracles must stand.
Which when the Rivers heard, they further speech forbare.
And shee (to please her selfe that onely seem’d to care)
To sing th’atchievement great of Bevis thus began;
Redoubted Knight (quoth shee) ô most renowned man!
Who, when thou wert but young, thy Mother durst reprove
(Most wickedly seduc’t by the unlawfull love
Of Mordure, at that time the Almain Emperors sonne)
That shee thy Sire to death disloyally had done:
Each circumstance whereof shee largelie did relate;
Then, in her song pursu’d his Mothers deadlie hate;
And how (by Sabers hand) when shee suppos’d him dead,
Where long upon the Downes a Shepheards life hee led;
Till by the great recourse, he came at length to knowe
The Country there-about could hardly hold the showe
His Mothers mariage feast to faire South-hampton drue,
Be’ing wedded to that Lord who late her husband slue:
Into his noble breast which pierc’t so wondrous deepe,
That (in the poore attire he us’d to tend the sheepe,
And in his hand his hooke) unto the Towne hee went;
As having in his heart a resolute intent
Or manfullie to die, or to revenge his wrong:
Where pressing at the gate the multitude among,
The Porter to that place his entrance that forbad
(Supposing him some swaine, some boystrous Country-lad)
Upon the head hee lent so violent a stroke,
That the poore emptie skull, like some thin potsheard broke,
The braines and mingled blood, were spertled on the wall
Then hasting on he came into the upper Hall,
Where murderous Mordure sate imbraced by his Bride:
Who (guiltie in himselfe) had hee not Bevis spide,
His boanes had with a blowe been shattred: but, by chance
(He shifting from the place, whilst Bevis did advance
His hand, with greater strength his deadly foe to hit,
And missing him) his chaire hee all to shivers split:
Which strooke his Mothers breast with strange and sundry feares,
That Bevis beeing then but of so tender yeares
Durst yet attempt a thing so full of death and doubt.
And, once before deceiv’d, shee newlie cast about
To rid him out of sight; and, with a mighty wage,
Wonne such, themselves by oath as deeplie durst ingage,
To execute her will: who shipping him away
(And making forth their course into the Mid-land sea)
As they had got before, so now againe for gold
To an Armenian there that young Alcides sold:
Of all his gotten prize, who (as the worthiest thing,
And fittest where-withall to gratifie his King)
Presented that brave youth; the splendor of whose eye
A wondrous mixture shew’d of grace and majestie:
Whose more then man-like shape, and matchlesse stature, tooke
The King; that often us’d with great delight to looke
Upon that English Earle. But though the love he bore
To Bevis might be much, his daughter tenne times more
Admir’d the god-like man: who, from the howre that first
His beautie shee beheld, felt her soft bosome pierst
With Cupids deadliest shaft; that Josian, to her guest,
Alreadie had resign’d possession of her breast.
Then sang shee, in the fields how as hee went to sport,
And those damn’d Panims heard, who in despightfull sort
Derided Christ the Lord; for his Redeemers sake
He on those heathen hounds did there such slaughter make,
That whilst in their black mouthes their blasphemies they drue,
They headlong went to hell. As also how hee slue
That cruell Boare, whose tusks turn’d up whole fields of graine
(And, wrooting, raised hills upon the levell Plaine;
Digd Caverns in the earth, so darke and wondrous deepe
As that, into whose mouth the desperate * Roman leepe):
And cutting off his head, a Trophy thence to beare;
The Forresters that came to intercept it there,
How he their scalps and trunks in chips and peeces cleft,
And in the fields (like beasts) their mangled bodies left.
As to his further praise, how for that dangerous fight
The great Armenian King made noble Bevis Knight:
And having raised power, Damascus to invade,
The Generall of his force this English Heroë made.
Then, how faire Josian gave him Arundell his steed,
And Morglay his good sword, in many a valiant deed
* Curtius, that for his
countries sake so
lavished his life.
Which manfully he tri’d. Next, in a * Buskind straine,
Sung how himselfe he bore upon Damascus Plaine
(That dreadful battell) where, with Bradamond he fought;
And with his sword and steed such earthlie wonders wrought,
* Loftie.
the Second Song. 31
As even amongst his foes him admiration won;
Incountring in the throng with mightie Radison;
And lopping off his armes, th’imperiall standard tooke.
At whose prodigious fall, the conquered Foe forsooke
The Field; where, in one day so many Peeres they lost,
So brave Commaunders, and so absolute an host,
As to the humbled earth tooke proud Damascus downe,
Then tributarie made to the Armenian Crowne.
And how at his returne, the King (for service done,
The honor to his raigne, and to Armenia won)
In mariage to this Earle the Princess Josian gave;
As into what distresse him Fortune after drave,
To great Damascus sent Ambassador againe;
When, in revenge of theirs, before by Bevis slaine
(And now, at his returne, for that he so despis’d
Those Idols unto whom they dailie sacrifiz’d:
Which he to peeces hew’d and scattred in the dust)
They, rising, him by strength into a Dungeon thrust;
In whose blacke bottom, long two Serpents had remain’d
(Bred in the common sewre that all the Cittie drain’d)
Empoysning with their smell; which seiz’d him for their pray:
With whom in strugling long (besmeard with blood and clay)
He rent their squallid chaps, and from the prison scap’t.
As how adultrous Joure, the King of Mambrant, rap’t
Faire Josian his deere Love, his noble sword and steed:
Which afterward by craft, he in a Palmers weed
Recoverd, and with him from Mambrant bare away.
And with two Lions how hee held a desperat fray,
Assayling him at once, that fiercelie on him flew:
Which first he tam’d with wounds, then by the necks them drew,
And gainst the hardned earth their jawes and shoulders burst;
And that (Golia-like) great Ascupart inforc’t
To serve him for a slave, and by his horse to runne.
At Colein as againe the glorie that he wonne
On that huge Dragon, like the Country to destroy;
Whose sting strooke like a Lance: whose venom did destroy
As doth a generall plague: his scales like shields of brass;
His bodie, when hee moov’d, like some unweeldie mass,
Even brus’d the solid Earth. Which boldlie having song,
With all the sundry turnes that might thereto belong,
Whilst yet shee shapes her course how he came back to show
What powers he got abroad, how them he did bestow;
In England heere againe, how he by dint of sword
Unto his ancient lands and titles was restor’d,
New-forrest cry’d enough: and Waltham with the Bere,
Both bad her hold her peace; for they no more would heare.
And for shee was a flood, her fellowes nought would say;
But slipping to their banks, slid silentlie away.
When as the pliant Muse, with faire and even flight,
Betwixt her silver wings is wafted to the a Wight:
That Ile, which jutting out into the Sea so farre,
Her ofspring traineth up in exercise of warre;
Those Pyrats to put backe that oft purloine her trade,
Or Spaniards, or the French attempting to invade.
Of all the Southerne Iles shee holds the highest place,
And evermore hath been the great’st in Britaines grace:
Not one of all her Nymphs her Soveraigne favoureth thus,
Imbraced in the armes of old Oceanus.
For none of her account, so neere her bosome stand,
a Ile of Wight.
Twixt b Penwiths furthest point, and b Goodwins queachy sand,
Both for her seat and soyle, that farre before the other,
Most justlie may account great Britaine for her Mother.
A finer fleece then hers not Lemsters selfe can boast,
Nor Newport for her Mart, o’r-matcht by any Coast.
To these, the gentle South, with kisses smooth and soft,
Doth in her bosome breathe, and seemes to court her oft.
Besides, her little Rills, her in-lands that doe feed,
Which with their lavish streames doe furnish everie need:
And Meads, that with their fine soft grassie towels stand
To wipe away the drops and moisture from her hand.
And to the North, betwixt the fore-land and the firme,
b The Fore-lands of
Cornwall and Kent.
Shee hath that narrow Sea, which we the Solent tearme:
Where those rough irefull Tides, as in her Straits they meet,
With boystrous shocks and rores each other rudely greet:
Which fiercelie when they charge, and sadlie make retreat,
The Solent.
Upon the bulwarkt Forts of c Hurst and Calsheot beat,
Then to South-hampton runne: which by her shores supplide
(As Portsmouth by her strength) doth vilifie their pride;
Both, Roads that with our best may boldlie hold their plea,
Nor Plimmouths selfe hath borne more braver ships then they;
That from their anchoring Bayes have travailed to finde
Large Chinas wealthie Realms, and view’d the either Inde,
The pearlie rich Peru; and with as prosperous fate,
Have borne their ful-spred sailes upon the streames of Plate:
Whose pleasant harbors oft the Sea-mans hope renue,
To rigge his late-craz’d Barke, to spred a wanton clue;
Where they with lustie Sack, and mirthfull Sailers songs,
Defie their passed stormes, and laugh at Neptunes wrongs:
The danger quite forgot wherein they were of late;
Who halfe so merrie now as Maister and his Mate?
And victualling againe, with brave and man-like minds
To Sea-ward cast their eyes, and pray for happie winds.
c Two Castles in the
the Second Song. 33
But, partlie by the floods sent thither from the shore,
And Ilands that are set the bordring coast before:
As one amongst the rest, a brave and lustie Dame
Call’d Portsey, whence that Bay of Portsmouth hath her name:
By her, two little Iles, her handmaids (which compar’d
With those within the Poole, for deftness not out-dar’d)
The greater Haling hight: and fairest though by much,
Yet Thorney verie well, but some-what rough in tuch.
Whose beauties farre and neere divulged by report,
And by the a Trytons told in mightie Neptunes Court,
Old b Proteus hath been knowne to leave his finny Heard,
And in their sight to spunge his foame-bespawled beard.
The Sea-gods, which about the watry kingdome keepe,
Have often for their sakes abandoned the Deepe;
That Thetis many a time to Neptune hath complaind,
How for those wanton Nymphes her Ladies were disdain’d:
And there arose such rut th’unrulie rout among,
That soone the noyse thereof through all the Ocean rong.
§. When Portsey, weighing well the ill to her might grow,
In that their mightie stirres might be her over-throw,
Shee stronglie straightneth-in the entrance to her Bay;
a Neptunes
b Proteus, a Sea-god
changing himselfe into
any shape.
That, of their haunt debard, and shut out to the Sea
(Each small conceived wrong helps on distempred rage.)
No counsell could be heard their choler to aswage:
When every one suspects the next that is in place
To be the onely cause and meanes of his disgrace.
Some comming from the East, some from the setting Sunne,
The liquid Mountaines still together mainlie runne;
Wave woundeth wave againe; and billow, billow gores:
And topsie turvie so, flie tumbling to the shores.
From hence the Solent Sea, as some men thought, might stand
Amongst those things, which wee call Wonders of our Land.
A poëticall description
of the Solent Sea.
When toghing up c that streame, so negligent of fame,
As till this verie day shee yet conceales her name;
By Bert and Waltham both, that’s equally imbrac’t,
And lastlie, at her fall, by Tichfield highlie grac’t.
c Tichfield River.
Whence, from old Windsor hill, and from the aged d Stone,
The Muse those Countries sees, which call her to be gone.
The Forests tooke their leave: Bere, Chute, and Buckholt, bid
Adieu; so Wolmer, and so Ashholt, kindly did.
And Pamber shooke her head, as grieved at the hart;
When farre upon her way, and ready to depart,
As now the wandring Muse so sadlie went along,
To her last Farewell, thus, the goodlie Forests song.
Deere Muse, to plead our right, whom time at last hath brought,
Which else forlorne had lyen, and banisht everie thought,
d Another little hill in
When thou ascend’st the hills, and from their rising shrouds
Our sisters shalt commaund, whose tops once toucht the clouds;
Old a Arden when thou meet’st, or doost faire b Sherwood see,
Tell them, that as they waste, so everie day doe wee:
Wish them, we of our griefes may be each others heirs;
Let them lament our fall, and we will mourne for theirs.
Then turning from the South which lies in publique view,
The Muse an oblique course doth seriously pursue:
And pointing to the Plaines, she thither takes her way;
For which, to gaine her breath shee makes a little stay.
a The great & ancient
forest of
b The goodly forest by