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, 251
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, 255
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 sept:
Not Ancums silvered Eele exceedeth that of Trent;
Though the sweet-smelling Smelt be more in Thames then me, 261
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, 265
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, 269
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, 275
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, 280
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. 285
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: 290
Which Sherwood tooke 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 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 296
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 299
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, 305
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. 310
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. 316
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, 319
His fellowes winded home, 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: 326
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, 331
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, 335
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.
And of these archers brave, there was not any one,
But he could kill a deere his swiftest speed upon, 340
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, 345
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 352
Who 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, 355
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 360
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, 365
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, 370
Is the hard vale of rocks, of Chesterfield posssst,
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, 375
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 380
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:
For shee a chimist was, and Natures secrets knew, 385
And from amongst the lead, she antimony drew,
And christall there congeal’d, (by her enstyled flowers)
And in all medcins knew their most effectual 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, 391
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, 397
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, 401
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 405
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 stemnesse may endure) 412
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, 415
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 420
Thy flore drad cave, yet flat, though very rough it be,
With often winding turnes; then come thou next to me,
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, 425
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
Into the mouth thereof, yet being once got in, 431
A rude and ample roofe doth instantly begin
To raise it selfe 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, 436
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 440
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, 445
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, 450
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, 455
Which men the second Bath of England doe account,
Which in the primer raignes, when first this well began
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, 460
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. 465
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. 470
My caves, and fountaines thus delivered you, for change,
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. 476
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: 482
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, 485
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. 490
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, 495
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 home and haire,
That hardly are put downe by those of Lancashire,)
Which on her mountaines sides, and in her bottoms graze, 501
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, — 505
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 g’orious 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 512
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, 515
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, 520
But hardly them the name of riverets can affoord;
When Burbrook with the strength, that Nature hath her stor’d,
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, 525
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, 530
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, 535
Where matter rests ynough her vigor to maintaine,
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