For she was let to know, that Soare had in her song So chanted Charnwood's worth, the rivers that along, Amongst the neighbouring nymphs there was no other lays,

But those which seem'd to sound of Charnwood, and her praise:

Which Sherwood took to heart, and very much disdain'd,

(As one that had both long, and worthily maintain'd
The title of the great'st and bravest of her kind)
To fall so far below one wretchedly confin'd
Within a furlong's space, to her large skirts com-
par'd:

Wherefore she 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 self-praise set apart, determineth to sing
That lusty Robin Hood, who long time like a king
Within her compass liv'd, and when he list to range
For some rich booty set, or else his air to change,
To Sherwood still retir'd, his only standing court,
Whose praise the forest thus doth pleasantly report:
"The merry pranks he play'd, would ask an age to
tell,

And the adventures strange that Robin Hood befel,
When Mansfield many a time for Robin hath been laid,
How he hath cousen'd them, that him would have be-
tray'd;

How often he hath come to Nottingham disguis'd,
And cunningly escap'd, being set to be surpriz'd.
In this our spacious isle, I think there is not one,
But he hath heard some talk of him and little John;
And to the end of time, the tales shall ne'er be done,
Of Scarlock, George-a-Green, and Much the miller's

son,

Of Tuck the merry friar, which many a sermon made In praise of Robin Hood, his outlaws, and their trade. An hundred valiant men had this brave Robin Hood, Still ready at his call, that bowmen were right good, All clad in Lincoln green, with caps of red and blue, His fellow's winded horn, not one of them but knew, When setting to their lips their little beugles shrill, The warbling echoes wak'd from every dale and hill: Their bauldricks set with studs, athwart their shoulders cast,

To which under their arms their sheafs were buckled fast,

A short sword at their belt, a buckler scarce a span,
Who struck below the knee, nor counted then a man:
All made of Spanish yew, their bows were wond'rous
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 marks full forty score, they us'd to prick, and rove,
Yet higher than the breast, for compass never strove;
Yet at the farthest mark a foot could hardly win:
At long-buts, short, and hoyles, each one could cleave
the pin:

Their arrows finely pair'd, for timber, and for feather,
With birch and brazil piec'd, to fly in any weather;
And shot they with the round, the square, or forked
pile,

The loose gave such a twang, as might be heard a mile. And of these archers brave, there was not any one, But he could kill a deer his swiftest speed upon,

Which they did boil and roast, in many a mighty wood,

Sharp hunger the fine sauce to their more kingly food.
Then taking them to rest, his merry men and he
Slept many a summer's night under the greenwood tree.
From wealthy abbots' chests, and churls abundant store,
What oftentimes he took, he shar'd amongst the poor:
No lordly bishop came in lusty Robin's way,
To him before he went, but for his pass must pay:
The widow in distress he graciously reliev'd,
And remedied the wrongs of many a virgin griev'd:
He from the husband's bed no married woman wan,
But to his mistress dear, his loved Marian,
Was ever constant known, which wheresoe'er she came,
Was sovereign of the woods, chief lady of the game:
Her clothes tuck'd to the knee, and dainty braided
hair,

With bow and quiver arm'd, she wander'd here and

there

Amongst the forests 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 again Wades Erwash that at hand on Sherwood's setting side The Nottinghamian field, and Derbian doth divide, And northward from her springs, haps Scardale forth to find,

Which like her mistress Peake, is naturally inclin'd To thrust forth ragged cleeves, with which she scattered lies

As busy nature here could not herself suffice,
Of this oft-alt'ring 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 bear,
You by the rocks might think, that it a mountain were
From which it takes the name of Scardale, which ex-
press'd,

Is the hard vale of rocks, of Chesterfield possess'd,
By her which is instil'd: where Rother from her rist,
Ibber, and Crawley hath, and Gunno, that assist
Her weaker wand'ring stream tow'rds Yorkshire as she
wends,

| So Scardale tow'rds the same, that lovely Iddle sends,
That helps the fertile seat of Axholme to inisle:
But to th' unwearied Muse the Peake appears the
while,

A withered beldam long, with bleared wat'rish eyes,
With many a bleak storm dim'd, which often to the
skies
[head,

She cast, and oft to th' earth bow'd down her aged
Her meagre wrinkled face, being sullied still with lead,
With sitting in the works, and poring o'er the mines,
Which she out of the ore continually refines:
For she a chemist was, and nature's secrets knew,
And from amongst the lead, she antimony drew,
And crystal there congeal'd (by her instiled flowers)
And in all medicines knew their most effectual powers.
The spirits that haunt the mines, she could command

Thinking the time was long, till she her tale had told,
Her wonders one by one, thus plainly doth unfold:
"My dreadful daughters born, your mother's dear
delight,
[might;
Great nature's chiefest work, wherein she shew'd her
Ye dark and hollow caves, the portraitures of hell,
Where fogs and misty damps continually do dwell;
O ye my lovely joys, my darlings, in whose eyes
Horror assumes her seat, from whose abiding flies
Thick vapours, that like rugs still hang the troubled air,
Ye of your mother Peake the hope and only care:
O thou my first and best, of thy black entrance nam'd
O be thou not asham'd,

Nor think thyself disgrac'd or hurt thereby at all,
Since from thy horror first men us'd thee so to call:
For as amongst the Moors, the jettiest black are deem'd
The beautiful'st of them; so are your kind esteem'd
The more ye gloomy are, more fearful and obscure,
(That hardly any eye your sternness may endure)
The more ye famous are, and what name men can hit,
That best may ye express, that best doth ye befit:
For he that will attempt thy black and darksome jaws,
In midst of summer meets with winter's stormy flaws,
Cold dews, that over head from thy foul roof distil,
And meeteth under foot with a dead sullen rill,
That Acheron itself a man would think he were
Immediately to pass, and staid for Charon there;
Thy floor, dread cave, yet flat, though very rough it be
With often winding turns: then come thou next to me,
My pretty daughter Poole, my second loved child,
Which by that noble name was happily instil'd,
Of that more generous stock, long honour'd in this
shire,

Of which amongst the rest, one being outlaw'd here,
For his strong refuge took this dark and uncouth place,
An heir-loom ever since, to that succeeding race:
Whose entrance though depress'd below a mountain
steep,

Besides so very strait, that who will see't must creep
Into the mouth thereof, yet being once got in,
A rude and ample roof doth instantly begin
To raise itself aloft, and whoso doth intend
The length thereof to see, still going must ascend
On mighty slippery stones, as by a winding stair,
Which of a kind of base dark alabaster are,

Of strange and sundry forms, both in the roof and floor,

As nature show'd in thee, what ne'er was seen before.
For Elden thou my third, a wonder I prefer
Before the other two, which perpendicular
Dive'st down into the ground, as if an entrance were
Through earth to lead to hell, ye well might judge it
here,
[found,
Whose depth is so immense, and wondrously pro-
As that long line which serves the deepest sea to
sound,
[scent
Her bottom never wrought, as though the vast de-
Through this terrestrial globe directly pointing went
Our Antipodes to see, and with her gloomy eyes,
To glote upon those stars, to us that never rise;
That down into this hole if that a stone ye throw,
An acre's length from thence (some say that) ye

"Yet for her caves, and holes, Peake only not excels, But that I can again produce those wondrous wells Of Buckston, as I have, that most delicious fount, Which men the second Bath of England do account, Which in the primer reigns, when first this well began To have her virtues known unto the blest Saint Anne, Was consecrated then, which the same temper hath As that most dainty spring, which at the famous Bath Is by the cross instil'd, whose fame I much prefer, In that I do compare my daintiest spring to her, Nice sicknesses to cure, as also to prevent, And supple their clear skins, which ladies oft frequent;

Most full, most fair, most sweet, and most delicious

source.

To this a second fount, that in her natural course,
As mighty Neptune doth, so doth she ebb and flow,
If some Welsh shires report, that they the like can
show.

I answer those, that her shall so no wonder call,
So far from any sea, not any of them all.
My caves and fountains thus deliver'd you, for change,
A little hill I have, a wonder yet more strange,
Which though it be of light, and almost dusty sand,
Unalter'd with the wind, yet doth it firmly stand;
And running from the top, although it never cease,
Yet doth the foot thereof no whit at all increase.
Nor is it at the top, the lower or the less,
As nature had ordain'd, that so its own excess
Should by some secret way within itself ascend,
To feed the falling back; with this yet doth not end
The wonders of the Peake, for nothing that I have,
But it a wonder's name doth very justly crave:
A forest such have I (of which when any speak
Of me they it instile, The Forest of the Peake)
Whose hills do 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 sternness there is none,
Where nature may be said to show you groves of stone,
As she in little there, had curiously compil'd
The model of the vast Arabian stony wild.
Then as it is suppos'd, in England that there be
Seven wonders: to myself so have I here in me,
My seven before rehears'd, allotted me by fate,
Her greatness, as therein ordain'd to imitate."

No sooner had the Peake her seven proud wonders sung,

But Darwin from her fount, her mother's hills among,
Through many a crooked way, oppos'd with envious
rocks,
[goodly flocks
Comes tripping down tow'rds Trent, and sees the
Fed by her mother Peake; and herds (for horn and
hair,
That hardly are put down by those of Lancashire)
Which on her mountains side, and in her bottoms
graze,
[to gaze,

On whose delightful course, whilst Unknidge stands
And look 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 far away,
Thus from their lofty tops, were plainly heard to say:

"Fair hill be not so proud of thy so pleasant scite, Who for thou giv'st the eye such wonderful delight, From any mountain near, that glorious name of Heaven, Thy bravery to express, was to thy greatness given:

Although but very small, yet much doth Darwin stead. At Worksworth on her way, when from the mines of lead,

[east, Brown Ecclesborne comes in, then Amber from the Of all the Derbian nymphs of Darwin lov'd the best, (A delicater flood from fountain never flow'd) Then coming to the town, on which she first bestow'd Her natural British name, her Derby, so again, Her to that ancient seat doth kindly entertain, Where Marten-Brook, although an easy shallow rill, There offereth all she hath, her mistress' banks to fill, And all too little thinks that was on Darwin spent ; From hence as she departs, in travelling to Trent Back goes the active Muse, tow'rds Lancashire amain, Where matter rests enough her vigour to maintain, And to the northern hills shall lead her on along, Which now must wholly be the subject of my song."

AN ODE WRITTEN IN THE PEAK.

THIS while we are abroad,

Shall we not touch our lyre?

Shall we not sing an Ode?
Shall that holy fire,
In us that strongly glow'd,
In this cold air expire?

Long since the summer laid
Her lusty brav'ry down,

The autumn half is way'd,

And Boreas 'gins to frown,

Since now I did behold

Great Brute's first builded town.

Though in the utmost Peak Awhile we do remain, Amongst the mountains bleak Expos'd to sleet and rain, No sport our hours shall break To exercise our vein.

What though bright Phœbus' beams

Refresh the southern ground, And though the princely Thames

With beauteous nymphs abound,

And by old Camber's streams Be many wonders found:

Yet many rivers clear

Here glide in silver swathes, And what of all most dear,

Buxton's delicious baths, Strong ale and noble cheer,

T'assuage breem winter's scathes.

Those grim and horrid caves, Whose looks affright the day, Wherein nice Nature saves

What she would not bewray,

Our better leisure craves,
And doth invite our lay.

In places far or near,

Or famous, or obscure, Where wholesome is the air,

Or where the most impure, All times, and every where, The Muse is still in ure.

THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT.

FAIR stood the wind for France,
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance

Longer will tarry;

But putting to the main,
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,

Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort,
Furnish'd in warlike sort,
Marched towards Agincourt

In happy hour;
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stopp'd his way,
Where the French gen'ral lay
With all his power.

Which in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide

To the king sending;

Which he neglects the while,
As from a nation vile,
Yet with an angry smile,
Their fall portending.

And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then,
Though they to one be ten,
Be not amazed.
Yet have we well begun,
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun

By fame been raised.

And for myself, quoth he, This my full rest shall be,

TO THE LADY MARGARET, COUNTESS
OF CUMBERLAND.

HE that of such a height hath built his mind,
And rear'd the dwelling of his thoughts so strong,
As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame
Of his resolv'd pow'rs; nor all the wind
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong
His settled peace, or to disturb the same:
What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may
The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey!
And with how free an eye doth he look down
Upon these lower regions of turmoil,
Where all the storms of passions mainly beat
On flesh and blood: where honour, pow'r, renown,
Are only gay afflictions, golden toil;
Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet
As frailty doth; and only great doth seem
To little minds, who do it so esteem.

He looks upon the mightiest monarch's wars
But only as on stately robberies;
Where evermore the fortune that prevails
Must be the right: the ill-succeeding mars
The fairest and the best-fac'd enterprize.
Great pirate Pompey lesser pirates quails:
Justice, he sees (as if seduced) still'
Conspires with pow'r, whose cause must not be ill.
He sees the face of right t' appear as manifold
As are the passions of uncertain man;
Who puts it in all colours, all attires,
To serve his ends, and make his courses hold.
He sees, that let deceit work what it can,
Plot and contrive base ways to high desires;
That the all-guiding Providence doth yet
All disappoint, and mocks this smoke of wit.

Nor is he mov'd with all the thunder-cracks
Of tyrants' threats, or with the surly brow
Of pow'r, that proudly sits on others' crimes :
Charg'd with more crying sins than those he checks.
The storms of sad confusion, that may grow
Up in the present for the coming times,
Appal not him; that hath no side at all,
But of himself, and knows the worst can fall.
Although his heart (so near ally'd to earth)
Cannot but pity the perplexed state
Of troublous and distress'd mortality,
That thus make way unto the ugly birth
Of their own sorrows, and do still beget
Affliction upon imbecility:

Yet seeing thus the course of things must run,
He looks thereon not strange, but as fore-done.
And whilst distraught ambition compasses,
And is encompass'd; whilst as craft deceives,
And is deceiv'd; whilst man doth ransack man,
And builds on blood, and rises by distress;
And th' inheritance of desolation leaves
To great expecting hopes: he looks thereon,
As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye,
And bears no venture in impiety.

Thus, madam, fares that man, that hath prepar'd
A rest for his desires; and sees all things
Beneath him; and hath learn'd this book of man,
Full of the notes of frailty; and compar'd
The best of glory with her sufferings:
By whom, I see, you labour all you can
To plant your heart; and set your thoughts as near
His glorious mansion, as your pow'rs can bear.
Which, madam, are so fondly fashioned
By that clear judgment, that had carry'd you
Beyond the feeble limits of your kind,
As they can stand against the strongest head
Passion can make; inur'd to any hue

The world can cast; that cannot cast that mind
Out of her form of goodness, that doth sec
Both what the best and worst of earth can be.

Which makes, that whatsoever here befals,
You in the region of yourself remain :
Where no vain breath of th' impudent molests,
That hath secur'd within the brazen walls
Of a clear conscience, that (without all stain)
Rises in peace, in innocency rests:
Whilst all that malice from without procures,
Shews her own ugly heart, but hurts not yours.
And whereas none rejoice more in revenge,
Than women use to do; yet you well know
That wrong is better check'd by being contcmn'd
Than being pursued; leaving to him t' avenge,
To whom it appertains. Wherein you shew
How worthily your clearness hath condemn'd
Base Malediction, living in the dark,
That at the rays of goodness still doth bark.

Knowing the heart of man is set to be
The centre of this world, above the which
These revolutions of disturbances

Still roll; where all th' aspects of misery
Predominate whose strong effects are such,
As he must bear, being pow'rless to redress:
And that unless above himself he can
Erect himself, how poor a thing is man!

And how turmoil'd they are that level lie
With earth, and cannot lift themselves from thence;
That never are at peace with their desires,
But work beyond their years; and ev'n deny
Dotage her rest, and hardly will dispense
With death. That when ability expires,
Desire lives still-So much delight they have,
To carry toil and travail to the grave.

Whose ends you see; and what can be the best They reach unto, when they have cast the sum And reck'nings of their glory. And you know, This floating life hath but this port of rest, A heart prepar'd, that fears no ill to come. And that man's greatness rests but in his shew, The best of all whose days consumed are Either in war, or peace-conceiving war.

This concord, madam, of a well-tun'd mind Hath been so set by that in-working hand