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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 betray'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


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 shoul-
ders cast,
To which under their arms their sheafs were buckled
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


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:

He from the husband's bed no married woman wan,
But to his mistress dear, his loved Marian, [came,
Was ever constant known, which wheresoe'er she
Was sovereign of the woods, chief lady of the game:
Her clothes tuck'd to the knee, and dainty braided
With bow and quiver arm'd, she wander'd here and
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 scarcelyceas'd,when as the Muse again Wades Erwash that at hand on Sherwood's setting side

Their arrows finelypair'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
The loose gave such a twang, as might be heard a
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
Sharp hunger the fine sauce to their more kingly
Then taking them to rest, his merry men and he
Slept many a summer's night under the greenwood
From wealthy abbots' chests, and churls abundant
What oftentimes he took, he shar'd amongst the
No lordly bishop came in lusty Robin's way, [poor:
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:


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


Which of a lowly dale, although the name it bear,
You by the rocks might think, that it a mountain
From which it takes the name of Scardale, which
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
That helps the fertile seat of Axholme to inisle:
But to th' unwearied Muse the Peake appears the


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, [mines, With sitting in the works, and poring o'er the 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


The spirits that haunt the mines, she could command and tame,

And bind them as she list in Saturn's dreadful name: She mill-stones from the quarrs, with sharpen'd picks could get, [to whet. And dainty whet-stones make, the dull-edg'd tools Wherefore the Peake as proud of her laborious toil, As others of their corn, or goodness of their soil, 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, [her might, Great nature's chiefest work, wherein she shew'd





Ye dark and hollow caves, the portraitures of hell, And coming back thereto, with a still list’ning ear,
Where fogs and misty damps continually do dwell; May hear a sound as though that stone then falling
Oye my lovely joys, my darlings, in whose eyes,
Horror assumes her seat, from whose abiding fies Yet for her caves, and holes, Peake only not excels,
Thick vapours,

that like rugs still hang the troubled But that I can again produce those wondrous wells Ye of your mother Peake the hope and onlycare:[air, Of Buckston, as I have, that most delicious fount, Othou my first and best, of thy black entrance nam'd Which men the second Bath of England do account,

O be thou not asham’d, Which in the primer reigns, when first this well Nor think thyself disgrac'd or hurt thereby at all, began

(Anne, Since from thy horror first men us'd thee so to call: To have her virtues known unto the blest Saint For as amongst the Moors, the jettiest black are Was consecrated then, which the same temper hath, deem'd

Asthat most dainty spring, which at the famous Bath
The beautiful'st of them; so are your kind esteemid Is by the cross instil'd, whose fame I much prefer,
The more ye gloomy are, more fearful and obscure, In that I do compare my daintiest spring to her,
(That hardly any eye your sternness may endure) Nice sicknesses to cure, as also to prevent, [quent;
The more ye famous are, and what name men can hit, And supple their clear skins, which ladies oft fre-
That best may ye express, that best doth ye befit: Most full, most fair, most sweet, and most delicious
For he that will attempt thy black and darksome

[flaws, To this a second fount, that in her natural course,
In midst of summer meets with winter's stormy As mighty Neptune doth, so doth she ebb and flow,
Cold dews, that over head from thy foul roof distil, If some Welsh shires report, that they the like can
And meeteth under foot with a dead sullen rill,

show. That Acheron itself a man would think he were I answer those, that her shall so no wonder call, Immediately to pass, and staid for Charon there; So far from any sea, not any of them all. Thy floor, dread cave, yet flat, though very rough it My caves and fountains thus deliver'd you, for be

(me, change,
With often winding turns: then come thou next to A little hill I have, a wonder yet more strange,
My pretty daughter Poole, my second loved child, Which though it be of light, and almost dusty sand,
Which by that noble name was happily instild, Unalter'd with the wind, yet doth it firmly stand;
Of that more generous stock, long honour'd in this And running from the top, although it never cease,

Yet doth the foot thereof, no whit at all increase.
Of which amongst the rest, one being outlaw'd here, Nor is it at the top, the lower or the less,
For his strong refuge took this dark and uncouth As nature had ordain'd, that so its own excess

Should by some secret way within itself ascend,
An heir-loom ever since, to that succeeding race: To feed the falling back; with this yet doth not end
Whose entrance though depress'd below a moun- The wonders of the Peake, for nothing that I have,

But it a wonder's name doth very justly crave:
Besides so very strait, that who will see't must treep A forest such have I (of which when any speak
Into the mouth thereof, yet being once got in, Of me they it instile, The Forest of the Peake)
A rude and ample roof doth instantly begin

Whose hills do serve for brakes, the rocks for shrubs
To raise itself aloft, and whoso doth intend

and trees,
The length thereof to see, still going must ascend To which the stag pursu'd, as to the thicket flees;
On mighty slippery stones, as by a winding stair, Like it in all this isle, for sternness there is none,
Which of a kind of base dark alabaster are,

Where nature may be said to show you groves of Of strange and sundry forms, both in the roof and As she in little there, had curiously compil'd (stone, floor,

The model of the vast Arabian stony wild.
As nature show'd in thee, what ne'er was seen before. Then as it is suppos’d, in England that there be
For Elden thou my third, a wonder I prefer Seven wonders: to myself so have I here in me,
Before the other two, which perpendicular

My seven before rehears’d, allotted me by fate,
Dive'st down into the ground, as if an entrance were Her greatness, as therein ordain'd to imitate.'
Through earth to lead to hell, ye well might judge No sooner had the Peake her seven proud won-
it here.

[among, Whose depth is so immense, and wondrously pro- But Darwin from her fount, her mother's hills As that long line which serves the deepest sea to Through many a crooked way, oppos'd with envious sound,


(goodly flocks
Her bottom never wrought, as though the vast de- Comes tripping down tow'rds Trent, and sees the
Through this terrestrial globe directly pointing went Fed by her mother Peake; and herds (for horn and
Our Antipodes to see, and with her gloomy eyes,

To glote upon those stars, to us that never rise; That hardly are put down by those of Lancashire)
That down into this hole if that a stone ye throw, Which on her mountains side, and in her bottom's
Ap acre's length from thence (some say that) ye graze,

(to gaze, may go,

On whose delightful course, whilst Unknidge stands

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ders sung,

And look on her his fill, doth on his tiptoes get, (set, Though in the utmost Peak
He Nowstoll plainly sees, which likewise from the

Awhile we do remain, Salutes her, and like friends, to Heaven-hill far Amongst the mountains bleak away,


Expos’d to sleet and rain, Thus from their lofty tops, were plainly heard to No sport our hours shall break • Fair hill be not so proud of thy so pleasant scite,

To exercise our vein. Who for thou giv'st the eye such wonderful delight,

What though bright Phæbus' beams From any mountain near, that glorious name of

Refresh the southern ground, Heaven,

And though the princely Thames Thy bravery to express, was to thy greatness given:

With beauteous nymphs abound, Nor cast thine eye so much on things that be above:

And by old Camber's streams For sawest thou as we do, our Darwin thou would'st

Be many wonders found : love Her more than any thing, that so doth thee allure;

Yet many rivers clear When Darwin that by this her travel could endure,

Here glide in silver swathes, Takes Now into her train (from Nowstoll her great And what of all most dear, sire,


Buxton's delicious baths, Which shews to take her name) with many a winding Strong ale and noble cheer, Then wand'ring through the wilds, at length the

T'assuage breem winter's scathes. pretty Wye,

[doth ply From her black mother Poole, her nimbler course

Those grim and horrid caves, Tow'rds Darwin, and along from Bakewell with

Whose looks affright the day, her brings

Wherein nice Nature saves Lathkell a little brook, and Headford, whose poor

What she would not bewray, springs

Our better leisure craves, But hardly them the name of riverets can afford;

And doth invite our lay. When Burbrook with the strength, that nature her

In places far or near, hath stor'd,


Or famous, or obscure, Although but very small, yet much doth Darwin

Where wholesome is the air, At Worksworth on her way, when from the mines

Or where the most impure, of lead,


All times, and every where,
Brown Ecclesborne comes in, then Amber from the

The Muse is still in ure.
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,

THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT. Her to that ancient seat doth kindly entertain,

Fair stood the wind for France, Where Marten-Brook, although an easy shallow rill,

When we our sails advance, There offereth all she hath, her mistress' banks to fill,

Nor now to prove our chance And all too little thinks that was on Darwin spent;

Longer will tarry; From hence as she departs, in travelling to Trent

But putting to the main, Back goes the active Muse,tow'rds Lancashire amain,

At Kaux, the mouth of Seine, Where matter rests enough her vigour to maintain,

With all his martial train, And to the northern hills shall lead her on along,

Landed King Harry. Which now must wholly be the subject of my song.'

And taking many a fort,

Furnish'd in warlike sort, AN ODE WRITTEN IN THE PEAK.

Marched towards Agincourt

In happy hour;
This while we are abroad,

Skirmishing day by day
Shall we not touch our lyre?

With those that stopp'd his way,
Shall we not sing an Ode?

Where the French gen’ral lay
Shall that holy fire,

With all his power.
In us that strongly glow'd,
In this cold air expire ?

Which in his height of pride,

King Henry to deride,
Long since the summer laid

His ransom to provide
Her lusty brav'ry down,

To the king sending ;
The autumn half is way'd,

Which he neglects the while,
And Boreas 'gins to frown,

As from a nation vile
Since now I did behold

Yet with an angry smile,
Great Brute's first builded town.

Their fall portending.


And turning to his men,

With Spanish yew so strong, Quoth our brave Henry then,

Arrows a cloth-yard long,
Though they to one be ten,

That like to serpents stung,
Be not amazed.

Piercing the weather;
Yet have we well begun,

None from his fellow starts, Battles so bravely won

But playing manly parts,
Have ever to the sun

And like true English hearts,
By fame been raised.

Stuck close together.

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SAMUEL DANIEL-A.D. 1562-1619.

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He that of such a height hath built his mind,
And reard the dwelling of his thoughts
As neither fear por hope can.etung
Of his resolv'd porto disturb the same:

Of vartair 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 be 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
Afliction 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 thị and compar'd

-uk of man, A rest for his da

or 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 see
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 contemn'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 sti!l-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-conceivíng war.

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

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