Haue I not knowne a wretch, the purchase of whose ground,
Was valued to be sould, at threescore thousand pound;
That in a little time, in a poore threed-bare coat,
Hath walk’d from place to place, to beg a silly groat?
When nothing hath of yours, or your base broods been left,
Except poore widdowes cries, to memorize your theft.
That curse the Serpent got in Paradise for hire,
Descend vpon you all, from him your deuillish Sire,
Groueling vpon the earth, to creepe vpon your breast,
And licke the lothsome dust, like that abhorred beast.
But leaue these hatefull heards, and let me now declare,
In th’Helliconian, who rightly christned are:
Not such as basely sooth the Humour of the Time,
And slubberingly patch vp some slight and shallow Rime,
Vpon Pernassus top, that striue to be instal’d,
Yet neuer to that place were by the Muses call’d.
Nor yet our Mimick Apes, out of their bragging pride,
That faine would seeme to be, what nature them denide;
Whose Verses hobling runne, as with disioynted bones,
And make a viler noyse, then carts vpon the stones;
And these forsooth must be, the Muses onely heires,
When they but Bastards are, and foundlings none of theirs,
Inforcing things in Verse for Poesie vnfit,
Mere filthy stuffe, that breakes out of the sores of wit:
What Poet reckes the praise vpon such Anticks heap’d,
Or enuies that their lines, in Cabinets are kept?
Though some fantasticke foole promoue their ragged Rymes,
And doe transcribe them o’r a hundred seuerall times,
And some fond women winnes, to thinke them wondrous rare,
When they lewd beggery trash, nay very gibbrish are.
Giue me those Lines (whose touch the skilfull eare to please)
That gliding flow in state, like swelling Euphrates,
In which things naturall be, and not in falsely wrong:
The Sounds are fine and smooth, the Sense is full and strong,
Not bumbasted with words, vaine ticklish eares to feed;
But such as may content the perfect man to read.
What is of Paynters said, is of true Poets rife,
That he which doth expresse things neerest to the life,
Doth touch the very poynt, nor needs he adde thereto:
For that the vtmost is, that Art doth striue to doe.
Had Orpheus, whose sweet Harpe (so musically strung)
Intised Trees, and Rocks, to follow him along:
Th’moralitie of which, is that his knowledge drew
The stony, blockish rout, that nought but rudenesse knew,
T’imbrace a ciuill life, by his inticing Layes.
Had he compos’d his lines, like many of these dayes,
Which to be vnderstood, doe take in it disdaine:
Nay, Oedipus may fayle, to know what they would meane.
If Orpheus had so play’d, not to be vnderstood,
Well might those men haue thought the Harper had been wood;
Who might haue fit him downe, the trees and rockes among,
And been a veryer blocke, then those to whom he sung.
O noble Cambridge then, my most beloued Towne,
In glory flourish still, to heighten thy renowne:
In womans perfect shape, still be thy Embleme right,
Whose one hand holds a Cup, the other beares a Light.
Phocis bedew’d with drops, that from Pernassus fall,
Let Cirrha seeke to her, nor be you least of ,
Yee faire Beotian Thebes, and Thespia still to pay
My Cambridge all her Rites: Cirrhea send this way.
O let the thrice-three Maids, their dewes vpon thee raine,
From Aganippa’s fount, and hoofe-plow’d Hyppocrene.
Mount Pindus, thou that art the Muses sacred place
In Thessaly; and thou, O Pimpla, that in Thrace
They chose for their owne hill, then thou Pernassus hye,
Vpon whose by-clift top, the sacred company
About Apollo sit; and thou O Flood, with these
Pure Hellicon, belou’d of the Pierides.
With Tempe, let thy walks, and shades, be brought to her,
And all your glorious gifts vpon my Towne conferre.
This said, the louely Grant glides eas’ly on along,
To meet the mighty Ouze, which with her watry throng,
The Cantabrigian fields had entred, taking in
Th’in-Iled Elies earth, which strongly she doth win
From Grants soft-neighbouring grounds, when as the fruitfull Ile,
Much wondring at her selfe, thought surely all this while,
That by her silence shee had suffred too much wrong.
Wherefore in her selfe praise, loe thus the Iland sung.
Of all the Marshland Iles, I Ely am the Queene:
For Winter each where sad, in me lookes fresh and greene.
The Horse, or other beast, o’rway’d with his owne masse,
Lies wallowing in my Fennes, hid ouer head in grasse:
And in the place where growes ranke Fodder for my Neat;
The Turffe which beares the Hay, is wondrous needfull Peat:
My full and batning earth, needs not the Plowmans paines;
The Rils which runne in me, are like the branched vaines
In humane Bodies seene; those Ditches cut by hand,
From the surrounding Meres, to winne the measured land,
To those choyce waters, I most fitly may compare,
Wherewith nice women vse to blanch their Beauties rare.
Hath there a man beene borne in me, that neuer knew
Of Watersey the Leame, or th’other cal’d the New.
The Frithdike neer’st my midst, and of another sort,
Who euer fish’d, or fowl’d, that cannot make report
Of sundry Meres at hand, vpon my Westerne way,
As Ramsey mere, and Vg, with the great Whittelsey:
Of the aboundant store of Fish and Fowle there bred,
Which whilst of Europes Iles Great Britaine is the Head.
No Meres shall truely tell, in them, then at one draught,
More store either kinds hath with the Net been caught:
Which though some pettie Iles doe challenge them to be
Their owne, yet must those Iles likwise acknowledge me
Their soueraigne. Nor yet let that Islet Ramsey shame,
Although to . Mere shee onely giues the name;
Nor Huntingdon, me though she extend her grounds,
Twit me that I at all vsurpe vpon her Bounds.
Those Meres may well be proud, that I will take them in,
Which otherwise perhaps forgotten might haue bin.
Besides my towred Phane, and my rich Citied seat,
With Villages, and Dorpes, to make me most compleat.
Thus broke she off her speech, when as the Muse awhile,
Desirous to repose, and rest her with the Ile,
Here consumates her Song, and doth fresh courage take,
With warre in the next Booke, the Muses to awake.
POLY-OLBION: THE TWO AND TWENTIETH SONG.
The Argument
The Muse, Ouze from her Fountaine brings
Along by Buckingham, and sings:
The Earth that turneth wood to stone,
And t’holy Wells of Harlweston:
Then shewes wherefore the Fates doe grant,
That shee the Ciuill warres should chant:
By Huntingdon shee Waybridge meetes,
And thence the German Ocean greetes.
INUENTION as before, thy high-pitcht pinions rouze,
Exactly to set downe how the far-wandring Ouze,
Through the Bedfordian fields deliciously doth strai
n,
As holding on her course, by Huntingdon againe,
How brauely shee her selfe betwixt her Bankes doth beare,
E’r Ely shee in-Ile, a Goddesse honored there;
From Brackley breaking forth, through soiles most heauenly sweet,
By Buckingham makes on, and crossing Watling-Street,
Shee with her lesser Ouze, at Newport next doth twin,
Which from proud Chiltern neere, comes eas’ly ambling in.
The Brooke which on her banke doth boast that earth alone:
(Which noted) of this Ile, conuerteth wood to stone.
That little Aspleyes earth we anciently instile,
Mongst sundry other things, A wonder of the Ile:
Of which the lesser Ouze oft boasteth in herway,
As shee her selfe with Flowers doth gorgeously aray.
Ouze hauing Ouleney past, as shee were waxed mad,
From her first stayder course immediatly doth gad;
And in Meandred Gyres doth whirle herselfe about,
That, this way, here, and there, backe, forward, in, and out,
And like a wanton Girle, oft doubling in her gate,
In Labyrinth-like turnes, and twinings intricate,
Through those rich fields doth runne, till lastly in her pride,
The Shires Hospitious towne, shee in her course diuide,
Where shee her spacious breast in glorious bredth displayes;
And varying her cleere forme a thousand sundry wayes,
Streakes through the verdant Meads; but farre she hath not gone,
When I vell a cleare Nymph from Shefford sallying on,
Comes deftly dauncing in through many a daintie Slade,
Crown’d with a goodly Bridge, arriu’d at Bickleswade,
Encouraged the more her Mistris to pursue,
In whose cleere face the Sunne delights himselfe to view:
To mixe her selfe with Ouze, as on she thus doth make,
And louingly at last hath hapt to ouertake;
Shee in her Chrystall Armes her soueraigne Ouze doth cling,
Which Flood in her Allie, as highly glorying,
Shoots forward to Saint Neots, into those nether grounds,
Towards Huntingdon, and leaues the lou’d Bedfordian bounds.
Scarce is she entred yet vpon this second Sheere,
Of which she soueraigne is, but that two Fountaines cleere,
At Harlweston neere hand, th’one salt, the other sweet,
At her first entrance, thus her greatnesse gently greet.
Once were we two faire Nymphs, who fortunatly prou’d,
The pleasures of the Woods, and faithfully belou’d
Of two such Syluan gods, by hap that found vs here;
For then their Syluan kind most highly honoured were,
When this whole Countries face was Forresty, and we
Liu’d loosely in the Weilds, which now thus peopled be.
Oft interchang’d we sighs, oft amorous lookes we sent,
Oft whispering our deare loues, our thoughts oft did we vent
Amongst the secret shades, oft in the groues did play,
And in our sports our ioyes, and sorrowes did bewray.
Oft cunningly we met, yet coyly then imbrac’t,
Still languish’d in desire, yet liu’d we euer chast.
And quoth the saltish Spring, as one day mine and I,
Set to recount our loues, from his more tender eye
The brinish teares drop’d downe, on mine impearced breast,
And instantly therein so deeply were imprest,
That brackish I became: he finding me depriu’d
Of former freshnesse quite, the cause from him deriu’d,
On me bestow’d this gift, my sweetnesse to requite,
That I should euer cure the dimnesse of the sight.
And, quoth the fresher Spring, the Wood-god me that woo’d,
As one day by my brim, surpriz’d with loue he stood,
On me bestow’d this gift, that euer after I
Should cure the painfull Itch, and lothsome Leprosie.
Held on with this discourse, shee on not farre hath runne,
But that shee is ariu’d at goodly Huntingdon;
Where shee no sooner viewes her darling and delight,
Proud Portholme, but became so rauish’d with the sight,
That shee her limber armes lasciuously doth throw
About the Islets waste, who b’ing imbraced so,
Her Flowry bosome shewes to the inamored Brooke;
On which when as the Ouze amazedly doth looke
On her braue Damask’d breast, bedeck’d with many a flowre
(That grace this goodly Mead) as though the Spring did powre
Her full aboundance downe, whose various dyes so thicke,
Are intermixt as they by one another sticke,
That to the gazing eye that standeth farre, they show
Like those made by the Sunne in the Celestiall Bow.
But now t’aduaunce this Flood, the Fates had brought to passe,
As shee of all the rest the onely Riuer was:
That but a little while before that fatall warre,
Twixt that diuided Blood of Yorke and Lancaster,
Neere Harleswood, aboue in her Bedfordian trace,
By keeping backe her streame, for neere three furlongs space,
Laying her Bosome bare vnto the publique view,
Apparantly was prou’d by that which did ensue,
In her Prophetique selfe, those troubles to foresee:
Wherefore (euen as her due) the Destinies agree,
Shee should the glory haue our ciuill fights to sing,
When swelling in her bankes, from her aboundant Spring,
Her sober silence shee now resolutely breakes,
In language fitting warre, and thus to purpose speakes.
With that most fatall field, I will not here begin,
Where Norman William first the Conqueror, did win
The day at Hastings, where the valiant Harold slaine,
Resign’d his Crowne, whose soyle the colour doth retaine,
Of th’English blood there shed, as th’earth still kept the skarre:
Which since not ours begot, but an inuasiue warre,
Amongst our home-fought fields, hath no discription here:
In Normandy nor that, that same day fortie yeare,
That Bastard William brought a Conquest on this Ile,
Twixt Robert his eld’st sonne, and Henry, who the while,
His Brothers warlike tents in Palestine were pight,
In England here vsurp’d his eld’st borne brothers right;
Which since it forraine was, not strucke within this land,
Amongst our ciuill fights here numbred shall not stand.
But Lincolne Battell now we as our first will lay,
Where Maud the Empresse stood to trie the doubtfull day,
With Stephen, when he here had welneere three yeares raign’d,
Where both of them their right couragiously maintain’d,
And marshalling their Troups, the King his person put,
Into his well-arm’d Maine, of strong and valiant Foot:
The Wings that were his Horse, in th’one of them he plac’d
Young Alan that braue Duke of Britaine, whom he grac’d
With th’Earles of Norsolke, and Northampton, and with those,
He Mellent in that wing, and Warren did dispose.
The other no whit lesse, that this great day might sted;
The Earle of Aubemerle, and valiant Ipres led.
The Empresse powers again, but in two Squadrons were:
The Vaward Chester had, and Gloucester the Reare;
Then were there valiant Welsh, and desperate men of ours,
That when supplies should want, might reinforce their powers.
The Battels ioyne, as when two aduerse Seas are dasht
Against each ot
hers waues, that all the plaines were washt
With showers of sweltring blood, that downe the furrowes ran,
Ere it could be discern’d which either lost or wan.
Earle Baldwin, and Fitzvrse those valiant Knights, were seene
To charge the Empresse Horse, as though dread Mars had beene
There in two sundry shapes; the day that beautious was,
Twinckled as when you see the Sunne-beames in a glasse,
That nimbly being stirr’d, flings vp the trembling flame
At once, and on the earth reflects the very same.
With their resplendent swords, that glistred gainst the Sunne;
The honour of the day, at length the Empresse wonne.
King Stephen prisoner was, and with him many a Lord,
The common Souldiers put together to the sword.
The next, the Battell neere Saint Edmundsbury fought,
By our Fitz-Empresse force, and Flemings hither brought
By th’Earle of Leister, bent to moue intestine strife,
For yong King Henries cause, crown’d in his fathers life;
Which to his kingly Syre much care and sorrow bred,
In whose defiance then that Earle his Ensignes spred,
Back’d by Hugh Bigots power, the Earle of Norfolke then,
By bringing to his ayd the valiant Norfolke men.
Gainst Bohun, Englands great high Constable that swayd
The Royall forces, ioyn’d with Lucy for his ayd
Chiefe Iustice, and with them the German powers, to expell
The Earles of Cornewall came, Gloster, and Arundell,
From Bury, that with them Saint Edmonds Banner bring,
Their Battels in aray; both wisely ordering
The Armies chanc’d to meet vpon the Marshy ground,
Betwixt Saint Edmunds towne, and Fornham (fitly found)
The bellowing Drummes beat vp a thunder for the charge,
The Trumpets rend the ayre, the Ensignes let at large,
Like wauing flames farre off, to either hoste appeare:
The bristling Pykes doe shake, to threat their comming neere;
All clouded in a mist, they hardly could them view,
So shaddowed with the Shafts from either side that flew.
The Wings came wheeling in, at ioyning of whole forces,
The either part were seene to tumble from their horses,
Which emptie put to rout, are paunch’d with Gleaues and Pyles,
Lest else by running loose, they might disranke their .
The Bilmen come to blowes, that with the cruell thwacks,
The ground lay strew’d with Male, and shreds of tatterd Iacks:
The playnes like to a shop, lookt each where to behold.
Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works Page 110
