 | The Works of Michael Drayton |  |
365
AN ODE WRITTEN IN THE PEAKE.
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 Ayre expire?
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 Ayre expire?
Long since the Summer layd
Her lustie Brav'rie downe,
The Autumne halfe is way'd,
And Boreas 'gins to frowne,
Since now I did behold
Great Brutes first builded Towne.
Her lustie Brav'rie downe,
The Autumne halfe is way'd,
And Boreas 'gins to frowne,
Since now I did behold
Great Brutes first builded Towne.
Though in the utmost Peake,
A while we doe remaine,
Amongst the Mountaines bleake
Expos'd to Sleet and Raine,
No Sport our Houres shall breake,
To exercise our Vaine.
A while we doe remaine,
Amongst the Mountaines bleake
Expos'd to Sleet and Raine,
No Sport our Houres shall breake,
To exercise our Vaine.
What though bright Phœbus Beames
Refresh the Southerne Ground,
And though the Princely Thames
With beautious Nymphs abound,
And by old Camber's Streames
Be many Wonders found;
Refresh the Southerne Ground,
And though the Princely Thames
With beautious Nymphs abound,
And by old Camber's Streames
Be many Wonders found;
Yet many Rivers cleare
Here glide in Silver Swathes,
And what of all most deare,
Buckston's delicious Bathes,
Strong Ale and Noble Cheare,
T'asswage breeme Winters scathes.
Here glide in Silver Swathes,
And what of all most deare,
Buckston's delicious Bathes,
Strong Ale and Noble Cheare,
T'asswage breeme Winters scathes.
366
Those grim and horrid Caves,
Whose Lookes affright the day,
Wherein nice Nature saves,
What she would not bewray,
Our better leasure craves,
And doth invite our Lay.
Whose Lookes affright the day,
Wherein nice Nature saves,
What she would not bewray,
Our better leasure craves,
And doth invite our Lay.
In places farre or neere,
Or famous, or obscure,
Where wholesome is the Ayre,
Or where the most impure,
All times, and every-where,
The Muse is still in ure.
Or famous, or obscure,
Where wholesome is the Ayre,
Or where the most impure,
All times, and every-where,
The Muse is still in ure.
| The Works of Michael Drayton | |