One of the Cyclops strong, Joves thunder-bolts that makes.
Great Neptune, Nelius got, (if you for wisedome seeke)
Who was old Nestors syre, the grav’st and wisest Greeke.
Or from this King of waves, of such thou lov’st to heare,
Of famous nations first, that mightie founders were;
Then Cadmus, who the plot of ancient Thebes contriv’d, 171
From Neptune god of sea, his pedigree deriv’d,
By Agenor his old syer, who rul’d Phenicia long:
So Inachus, the chiefe of Argives great and strong
Claim’d kinred of this King, and by some beautious neece, 175
So did Pelasgus too, who peopled ancient Greece.
A world of mightie Kings and Princes I could name,
From our god Neptune sprung; let this suffice, his. fame
Incompasseth the world; those starres which never rise,
Above the lower south, are never from his eyes: 180
As those againe to him doe every day appeare,
Continually that keepe the northerne hemisphere;
Who like a mightie king, doth cast his watched robe,
Farre wider then the land, quite round about the globe.
Where is there one to him that may compared be, 185
That both the poles at once continually doth see;
And gyant-like with heaven as often maketh warres;
The ilands (in his power) as numberlesse as starres,
He washeth at his will, and with his mightie hands,
He makes the even shores, oft mountainous with sands: 190
Whose creatures, which observe his wide emperiall seat,
Like his immeasured selfe, are infinite and great.
Thus ended they their song, and offth’assembly brake,
When quickly towards the west, the Muse her way doth take;
Whereas the swelling soyle, as from one banke doth bring 195
This Waveney sung before, and Ouse the lesse, whose spring
Towards Ouse the greater poynts, and downe by Thetford glides,
Where shee cleere Thet receives, her glory that divides,
With her new-named towne, as wondrous glad that shee,
For frequency of late, so much esteemd should be:
Where since these confluent floods, so fit for hauking lye, 201
And store of fowle intice skil’d falkoners there to flye.
Now of a flight at brooke shall my description be:
What subject can be found, that lies not faire to me.
Of simple shepheards now, my Muse exactly sings,
And then of courtly loves, and the affaires of Kings.
Then in a buskind straine, the warlike speare and shield, 207
And instantly againe of the disports of field;
What can this ile produce, that lyes from my report,
Industrious Muse, proceed then to thy hawking sport. 210
When making for the brooke, the falkoner doth espie
On river, plash, or mere, where store of fowle doth lye:
Whence forced over land, by skilfull falconers trade:
A faire convenient flight, may easily be made.
He whistleth off his hawkes, whose nimble pineons straight, 215
Doe worke themselves by turnes, into a stately height:
And if that after check, the one or both doe goe,
Sometimes he them the lure, sometimes doth water show;
The trembling fowle that heare the jigging hawk-bels ring,
And find it is too late, to trust then to their wing, 220
Lye flat upon the flood, whilst the high-mounted hawks,
Then being lords alone, in their etheriall walkes,
Aloft so bravely stirre, their bells so thicke that shake;
Which when the falkoner sees, that scarce one plane they make:
The gallant’st birds saith he, that ever flew on wing.
And sweares there is a flight, were worthy of a King.
Then making to the flood, to force the fowles to rise, 227
The fierce and eager hawkes, downe thrilling from the skies,
Make sundry canceleers e’r they the fowle can reach,
Which then to save their lives, their wings doe lively stretch. 230
But when the whizzing bels the silent ayre doe cleave,
And that their greatest speed, them vainly doe deceive;
And the sharpe cruell hawkes, they at their backs doe view,
Themselves for very feare they instantly ineawe.
The hawkes get up againe into their former place;
And ranging here and there, in that their ayery race:
Still as the fearefull fowle attempt to scape away, 237
With many a stouping brave, them in againe they lay.
But when the falkoners take their hawking-poles in hand,
And crossing of the brooke, doe put it over land: 240
The hawke gives it a souse, that makes it to rebound,
Well neere the height of man, sometime above the ground;
Oft takes a leg, or wing, oft takes away the head,
And oft from necke to tayle, the backe in two doth shread.
With many a we ho ho, and jocond lure againe, 245
When he his quarry makes upon the grassy plaine.
But to my floods againe: when as this Ouze the lesse
Hath taken in cleere Thet, with farre more free accesse
To Ouse the great shee goes, her Queene that commeth crown’d,
As such a river fits, so many miles renown’d; 250
And poynting to the north, her christall front she dashes
Against the swelling sands of the surrounded washes;
And Neptune in her armes, so amply doth imbrace,
As she would rob his Queene, faire Thetis of her place.
Which when rich Marsh-land sees, least she should loose her state, 255
With that faire river thus, shee gently doth debate.
Disdaine me not, deare flood, in thy excessive pride,
There’s scarcely any soyle that sitteth by thy side,
Whose turfe so batfull is, or beares so deepe a swath;
Nor is there any marsh in all Great Britaine, hath
So many goodly seats, or that can truely show 261
Such rarities as I: so that all marshes owe
Much honor to my name, for that exceeding grace,
Which they receive by me, so soveraigne in my place.
Though Rumney, as some say, for finenesse of her grasse, 265
And for her daintie scite, all other doth surpasse:
Yet are those seas but poore, and rivers that confine
Her greatnesse but meane rills, be they compar’d with mine.
Nor hardly doth shee tyth th’aboundant fowle and fish,
Which Nature gives to me, as I my selfe can wish. 270
As Amphitrite oft, calls me her sweet and faire,
And sends the northrene winds to curie my braided haire.
And makes the washes stand, to watch and ward me still,
Lest that rough god of sea, on me should worke his will.
Old Wisbitch to my grace, my circuit sits within, 275
And neere my banks I have the neighbourhood of Lyn.
Both townes of strength and state, my profits still that vent:
No marsh hath more of sea, none more of continent.
Thus Marsh-land ends her speech, as one that throughly knew,
What was her proper praise, and what was Ouzes due. 280
With that the zealous Muse, in her poetique rage,
To Walsingham would needs have gone a pilgrimage,
To view those farthest shores, whence little Niger flowes
Into the northrene maine, and see the gleabe where growes
That saffron, (which men say) this land hath not the like, 285
All Europe that excels: but here she sayle doth strike.
For that Apo
llo pluckt her easly by the eare;
And told her in that part of Norfolke, if there were
Ought worthy of respect, it was not in her way,
When for the greater Ouze, her wing she doth display. 290
POLY-OLBION: THE ONE AND TWENTIETH SONG.
The Argument
Now from New market comes the Muse,
Whose spacious Heath, shee wistly viewes,
Those Ancient Ditches and surueyes,
Which our first Saxons here did raise:
To Gogmagog then turnes her tale,
And shewes you Ring-tailes pleasant vale.
And to doe Cambridge all her Rites,
The Muses to her Towne inuites.
And lastly, Elies praise shee sings,
An end which to this Canto brings.
BY this our little rest, thus hauing gotten breath,
And fairely in our way, vpon Newmarket-Heath:
That great and ancient Ditch, which vs expected long,
Inspired by the Muse, at her arriuall song:
O Time, what earthly thing with thee it selfe can trust,
When thou in thine owne course, art to thy selfe vniust!
Dost thou contract with death, and to obliuion giue
Thy glories, after them, yet shamefully dar’st liue?
O Time, hadst thou preseru’d, what labouring man hath done,
Thou long before this day, mightst to thy selfe haue wonne
A Deitie with the gods, and in thy Temple plac’d,
But sacriligious thou, hast all great workes defac’d;
For though the things themselues haue suffered by thy theft,
Yet with their Ruines, thou, to ages mightst haue left,
Those Monuments who rear’d, and not haue suffred thus
Posteritie so much, t’abuse both thee and vs.
I, by th’ East Angles first, who from this Heath arose,
The long’st and largest Ditch, to check their Mercian foes;
Because my depth, and breadth, so strangely doth exceed,
Mens low and wretched thoughts, they constantly decreed,
That by the Deuils helpe, I needs must raised be,
Wherefore the Deuils-Ditch they basely named me:
When ages long before, I bare Saint Edmonds name,
Because vp to my side, (some haue supposed) came
The Liberties bequeath’d to his more sacred Shrine.
Therefore my fellow Dykes, ye ancient friends of mine,
That out of earth were raisd, by men whose minds were great,
It is no maruaile, though Obliuion doe you threat.
First, Flemditch next my selfe, that art of greatest strength,
That doest extend thy course full seauen large mile in length:
And thou the Fiuemile cald, yet not lesse deare to me;
With Brenditch, that againe is shortest of the three,
Can you suppose your selues at all to be respected,
When you may see my truth’s bely’d, and so neglected:
Therefore deare Heath, liue still in prosperous estate,
And let thy wel-fleec’d Flocks, from morne to euening late,
(By carefull Shepheards kept) reioyce thee with their praise;
And let the merry Larke, with her delicious layes,
Giue comfort to thy plaines, and let me onely lye,
(Though of the world contemn’d) yet gracious in thine eye.
Thus said, these ancient Dykes neglected in their ground,
Through the sad aged earth, sent out a hollow sound,
To gratulate her speech; when as we met againe,
With one whose constant heart, with cruell loue was slaine:
Old Gogmagog, a Hill of long and great renowne,
Which neere to Cambridge set, o’rlookes that learned Towne.
Of Balshams pleasant hilles, that by the name was knowne,
But with the monstrous times, he rude and barbarous growne,
A Gyant was become; for man hee cared not,
And so the fearefull name of Gogmagog had got:
Who long had borne good will to most delicious Grant:
But doubting lest some god his greatnesse might supplant.
For as that daintie Flood by Cambridge keepes her course,
He found the Muses left their old Beotian source,
Resorting to her banks, and euery little space,
He saw bright Phoebus gaze vpon her Christall face,
And through th’exhaled Fogs, with anger looked red,
To leaue his loued Nymph, when he went downe to bed.
Wherefore this Hill with loue, being fouly ouergone:
And one day as he found the louely Nymph alone,
Thus wooes her; Sweeting mine, if thou mine owne wilt be,
C’haue many a pretty gaud, I keepe in store for thee.
A nest of broad-fac’d Owles, and goodly Vrchins too;
Nay Nymph take heed of me, when I begin to wooe:
And better yet then this, a Bulchin twa yeares old,
A curld-pate Calfe it is, and oft could haue beene sold:
And yet beside all this, c’haue goodly Beare-whelps twa,
Full daintie for my Ioy, when shee’s dispos’d to play,
And twentie Sowes of Lead, to make our wedding Ring;
Bezides, at Sturbridge Fayre, chill buy thee many a thing:
Chill zmouch thee euery morne, before the Sunne can rise,
And looke my manly face, in thy sweet glaring eyes.
Thus said, he smug’d his Beard, and stroked vp his hayre,
As one that for her loue he thought had offered fayre:
Which to the Muses, Grant did presently report,
Wherewith they many a yeare shall make them wondrous sport.
When Ringdale in her selfe, a most delicious Dale,
Who hauing heard too long the barbarous Mountaines tale,
Thus thinketh in her selfe, Shall I be silenc’d, when
Rude Hills, and Ditches, digg’d by discontented men,
Are ayded by the Muse; their Mind’s at large to speake:
Besides my sister Vales supposing me but weake,
Iudge meanly of my state, when she ńo longer stayd,
But in her owne behalfe, thus to the other said.
What though betwixt two Sheeres, I be by Fortune throwne,
That neither of them both can challenge me her owne,
Yet am I not the lesse, nor lesse my Fame shall be:
Your Figures are but base, when they are set by me;
For Nature in your shapes, notoriously did erre,
But skillfull was in me, cast pure Orbiculer.
Nor can I be compar’d so like to any thing,
By him that would expresse my shape, as to a Ring:
For Nature bent to sport, and various in her trade,
Of all the British Vales, of me a circle made:
For in my very midst, there is a swelling ground,
About which Ceres Nymphs dance many a wanton Round.
The frisking Fairy there, as on the light ayre borne,
Oft runne at Barley-breake vpon the eares of Corne;
And catching drops of dew in their lasciuious chases,
Doe cast the liquid pearle in one anothers faces.
What they in largenesse haue, that beare themselues so hie,
In my most perfect forme, and delicacie, I,
For greatnesse of my graine, and finenesse of my grasse;
This Ilc scarce hath a Vale, that Ringdale doth surpasse.
When more she would haue said, but suddenly there sprung,
A confident report, that through the Countrey rung,
That Cam her daintiest Flood, long since entituled Grant,
Whose fountaine Ashwell crown’d, with many a vpright plant.
In sallying on for Ouze, determin’d by the way,
To intertaine her friends the Muses with a Lay.
Wherefore to shew her selfe er’e
she to Cambridge came,
Most worthy of that Towne to which she giues the name,
Takes in her second head, from Linton comming in,
By Shelford hauing slid, which straightway she doth win:
Then which, a purer Streame, a delicater Brooke,
Bright Phoebus in his course, doth scarcely ouerlooke.
Thus furnishing her bankes; as sweetly she doth glide
Towards Cambridge, with rich Meads layd forth on either side;
And with the Muses oft, did by the way conuerse:
Wherefore it her behooues, that something she reherse,
The Sisters that concern’d, who whispered in her eare,
Such things as onely shee, and they themselues should heare,
A wondrous learned Flood; and she that had been long,
(Though silent, in her selfe, yet) vexed at the wrong
Done to Apollo’s Priests, with heauenly fire infused,
Oft by the worthlesse world, vnworthily abused:
With whom, in their behalfe, hap ill, or happen well,
Shee meant to haue a bout, euen in despight of Hell,
When humbly lowting low, her due obedience done,
Thus like a Satyre shee, deliberatly begun.
My Inuectiue, thus quoth she, I onely ayme at you,
(Of what degree soe’r) ye wretched worldly crue,
In all your brainlesse talke, that still direct your drifts
Against the Muses sonnes, and their most sacred gifts,
That hate a Poets name, your vilenesse to aduance,
For euer be you damn’d in your dull ignorance.
Slaue, he whom thou dost thinke, so meane and poore to be,
Is more then halfe diuine, when he is set by thee.
Nay more, I will avow, and iustifie him then,
He is a god, compar’d with ordinary men.
His braue and noble heart, here in a heauen doth dwell,
Aboue those worldly cares, that sinks such sots to hell:
A caitife if there be more viler then thy selfe,
If he through basenesse light vpon this worldly pelfe,
The Chimney-sweepe, or he that in the dead of night,
Doth emptie lothsome vaults, may purchase all your right;
When not the greatest King, should he his treasure raine,
The Muses sacred gifts, can possibly obtaine;
No, were he Monarch of the vniuersall earth,
Except that gift from heauen, be breath’d into his birth.
How transitory be those heaps of rotting mud,
Which onely to obtaine, yee make your chiefest good?
Perhaps to your fond sonnes, your ill-got goods yee leaue,
You scarcely buried are, but they your hopes deceiue.
Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works Page 109