For she was let to know, that Soare had in her song Which they did boil and roast, in many a mighty
So chanted Charnwood's worth, the rivers that along, wood,
Amongst the neighbouring nymphs there was no other Sharp hunger the fine sauce to their more kingly food.
lays,

Then taking them to rest, his merry men and he But those which seem'd to sound of Charnwood, and Slept many a summer's night under the greenwood tree. her praise :

From wealthy abbots' chests, and churls abundant store, Which Sherwood took to heart, and very much dis- What oftentimes he took, he shar'd amongst the poor : dain'd,

No lordly bishop came in lusty Robin's way, (As one that had both long, and worthily maintain' To him before he went, but for his pass must pay: The title of the great'st and bravest of her kind) The widow in distress he graciously reliev'd, To fall so far below one wretchedly confind And remedied the wrongs of many a virgin griev'd : Within a furlong's space, to her large skirts com- He from the husband's bed no married woman wan, par'd:

But to his mistress dear, his loved Marian, Wherefore she as a nymph that neither fear'd nor car'd Was ever constant known, which wheresoe'er she came, For ought to her might chance, by others love or hate, Was sovereign of the woods, chief lady of the game : With resolution arm'd against the power of fate, Her clothes tuck'd to the knee, and dainty braided All self-praise set apart, determineth to sing

hair, That lusty Robin Hood, who long time like a king With bow and quiver arm’d, she wander'd here and Within her compass liv'd, and when he list to range

there For some rich booty set, or else his air to change, Amongst the forests wild ; Diana never knew To Sherwood still retir'd, his only standing court, Such pleasures, nor such harts as Mariana slew." Whose praise the forest thus doth pleasantly report : Of merry Robin Hood, and of his merrier men, “ The merry pranks he play'd, would ask an age to The song had scarcely ceas'd, when as the Muse again tell,

Wades Erwash that at hand on Sherwood's setting side And the adventures strange that Robin Hood befel, The Nottinghamian field, and Derbian doth divide, When Mansfield many a time for Robin hath been laid, And northward from her springs, haps Scardale forth How he hath cousen'd them, that him would have be- to find, tray'd;

Which like her mistress Peake, is naturally inclin'd How often he hath come to Nottingham disguis’d, To thrust forth ragged cleeves, with which she scatAnd cunningly escap'd, being set to be surpriz'd.

tered lies In this our spacious isle, I think there is not one, As busy nature here could not herself suffice, But he hath beard some talk of him and little John; Of this oft-alt'ring earth the sundry shapes to show, And to the end of time, the tales shall ne'er be done. That from my entrance here doth rough and rougher Of Scarlock, George-a-Green, and Much the miller's grow, son,

Which of a lowly dale, although the name it bear, Of Tuck the merry friar, which many a sermon made You by the rocks might think, that it a mountain were In praise of Robin Hood, his outlaws, and their trade. From which it takes the name of Scardale, which ex. An hundred valiant men had this brave Robin Hood, pressid, Still ready at his call, that bowmen were right good,' Is the hard vale of rocks, of Chesterfield possess'd, All clad in Lincoln green, with caps of red and blue, By her which is instild: where Rother from her rist, His fellow's winded horn, not one of them but knew, Ibber, and Crawley hath, and Gunno, that assist When setting to their lips their little beugles shrill, Her weaker wand'ring stream tow'rds Yorkshire as she The warbling echoes wak'd from every dale and hill: wends, Their bauldricks set with studs, athwart their shoulders So Scardale tow'rds the same, that lovely Iddle sends, cast,

That helps the fertile seat of Axholme to inisle: To which under their arms their sheafs were buckled But to th' unwearied Muse the Peake appears the fast,

while, A short sword at their belt, a buckler scarce a span, A withered beldam long, with bleared wat'rish eyes, Who struck below the knee, nor counted then a man : With many a bleak storm dim'd, which often to the All made of Spanish yew, their bows were wond'rous skies

[head, strong;

She cast, and oft to th' earth bow'd down her aged They not an aprow drew, but was a cloth yard long. Her meagre wrinkled face, being sullied still with lead, Of archery they had the very perfect craft,

With sitting in the works, and poring o'er the mines, With broad-arrow, or but, or prick, or roving shaft, Which she out of the ore continually refines : At marks full forty score, they us’d to prick, and rove, For she a chemist was, and nature's secrets knew, Yet higher than the breast, for compass never strove; And from amongst the lead, she antimony drew, Yet at the farthest mark a foot could hardly win: And crystal there congeald (by her instiled flowers) At long-buts, short, and hoyles, each one could cleave And in all medicines knew their most effectual powers. the pin :

The spirits that haunt the mines, she could command Their arrows finely pair'd, for timber, and for feather,

and tame, With birch and brazil piec'd, to fly in any weather ; And bind them as she list in Saturn's dreadful name : And shot they with the round, the square, or forked She mill-stones from the quarrs, with sharpen'd picks pile,

(whet. The loose gave such a twang, as might be heard a mile. And dainty whet-stones make, the dull-cdg’d tools to And of these archers brave, there was not any one, Wherefore the Peake as proud of her laborious toil, But he could kill a deer his swiftest speed upon, As others of their corn, or goodness of their soil,

a

a

a

source.

Thinking the time was long, till she her tale had told, “ Yet for her caves, and holes, Peake only not excels, Her wonders one by one, thus plainly doth unfold : But that I can again produce those wondrous wells “My dreadful daughters born, your mother's dear Of Buckston, as I have, that most delicious fount, delight,

[might; Which men the second Bath of England do account, Great nature's chiefest work, wherein she shew'd her which in the primer reigns, when first this well began Ye dark and hollow caves, the portraitures of hell, To have her virtues known unto the blest Saint Anne, Where fogs and misty damps continually do dwell ; Was consecrated then, which the same temper hath O ye my lovely joys, my darlings, in whose eyes As that most dainty spring, which at the famous Bath Horror assumes her seat, from whose abiding flies Is by the cross instild, whose fame I much prefer, Thick vapours, that like rugs still hang the troubled air, In that I do compare my daintiest spring to her, Ye of your mother Peake the hope and only care : Nice sicknesses to cure, as also to prevent, O thou my first and best, of thy black entrance nam'd And supple their clear skins, which ladies oft fre. O be thou not asham'd,

quent ; Nor think thyself disgrac'd or hurt thereby at all, Most full, most fair, most sweet, and most delicious Since from thy horror first men us’d thee so to call : For as amongst the Moors, the jettiest black are deem'd To this a second fount, that in her natural course, The beautiful'st of them ; so are your kind esteem'd As mighty Neptune doth, so doth she ebb and flow, The more ye gloomy are, more fearful and obscure, If some Welsh shires report, that they the like can (That hardly any eye your sternness may endure)

show. The more ye famous are, and what name men can hit, I answer those, that her shall so no wonder call, That best may ye express, that best doth ye befit: So far from any sea, not any of them all. For he that will attempt thy black and darksome jaws, My caves and fountains thus deliver'd you, for change, In midst of summer meets with winter's stormy Haws, A little hill I have, a wonder yet more strange, Cold dews, that over head from thy foul roof distil, Which though it be of light, and almost dusty sand, And meeteth under foot with a dead sullen rill, Unalter'd with the wind, yet doth it firmly stand ; That Acheron itself a man would think he were And running from the top, although it never cease, Immediately to pass, and staid for Charon there ; Yet doth the foot thereof no whit at all increase. Thy floor, dread cave, yet flat, though very rough it be Nor is it at the top, the lower or the less, With often winding turns: then cone thou next to me, As nature had ordain'd, that so its own excess My pretty daughter Poole, my second loved child, Should by some secret way within itself ascend, Which by that noble mme was happily instild, To feed the falling back; with this yet doth not end Of that more generous stock, long honour'd in this The wonders of the Peake, for nothing that I have, shire,

But it a wonder's name doth very justly crave: Of which amongst the rest, one being outlaw'd here, A forest such have I (of which when any spcak For his strong refuge took this dark and uncouth place, of me they it instile, The Forest of the Peake). An heir-loom ever since, to that succeeding race: Whose hills do serve for brakes, the rocks for shrubs Whose entrance though depress'd below a mountain

and trees, steep,

To which the stag pursu'd, as to the thicket flees ; Besides so very strait, that who will see't must creep Like it in all this isle, for sternness there is none, Into the mouth thereof, yet being once got in,

Where nature may be said to show you groves of stone, A rude and ample roof doth instantly begin

As she in little there, had curiously compil'd To raise itself aloft, and whoso doth intend

The model of the vast Arabian stony wild. The length thereof to see, still going must ascend Then as it is suppos'd, in England that there be On mighty slippery stones, as by a winding stair, Seven wonders : to myself so have I here in me, Which of a kind of base dark alabaster are,

My seven before rehears'd, allotted me by fate, Of strange and sundry forms, both in the roof and Her greatness, as therein ordain'd to imitate.” floor,

No sooner had the Peake her seven proud wonders As nature show'd in thee, what ne'er was seen before. sung, For Elden thou my third, a wonder I prefer But Darwin from her fount, her mother's hills among, Before the other two, which perpendicular

Through many a crooked way, oppos'd with envious Dive'st down into the ground, as if an entrance were rocks,

(goodly flocks Through earth to lead to hell, ye well might judge it comes tripping down tow'rds Trent, and sees the here,

(found, Fed by her mother Peake; and herds (for horn and Whose depth is so immense, and wondrously pro- hair, As that long line which serves the deepest sea to That hardly are put down by those of Lancashire) sound,

(scent Which on her mountains side, and in her bottoms Her bottom never wrought, as though the vast de- graze,

(to gaze, Through this terrestrial globe directly pointing went On whose delightful course, whilst Unknidge stands Our Antipodes to see, and with her gloomy eyes, And look on her his fill, doth on his tiptoes get, To glote upon those stars, to us that never rise ; He Nowstoll plainly sees, which likewise from the set, That down into this hole if that a stone ye throw, Salutes her, and like friends, to Heaven-hill far away, An acre's length from thence (some say that) ye Thus from their lofty tops, were plainly heard to say : may go,

“ Fair hill be not so proud of thy so pleasant scite, And coming back thereto, with a still list'ning ear, Who for thou giv'st the eye such wonderful delight, May hear a sound as though that stone then falling From any mountain near, that glorious name of Heaven, were.

Thy bravery to express, was to thy greatness given :

SAMUEL DANIEL-A.D. 1562-1619.

TO THE LADY MARGARET, COUNTESS

Thus, madam, fares that man, that hath prepar'd OF CUMBERLAND.

A rest for his desires ; and sees all things
He that of such a height hath built his mind, Beneath him; and hath learn'd this book of man,
And rear'd the dwelling of his thoughts so strong,

Full of the notes of frailty ; and compar'd
As neither fear nor hopė can shake the frame The best of glory with her sufferings :
Of his resolv'd pow'rs; nor all the wind

By whom, I see, you labour all you can
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong

To plant your heart; and set your thoughts as near His settled peace, or to disturb the same :

His glorious mansion, as your pow’rs can bear. What a fair seat bath he, from whence he may Which, madam, are so fondly fashioned The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey ! By that clear judgment, that had carry'd you

And with bow free an eye doth he look down Beyond the feeble limits of your kind, Upon these lower regions of turmoil,

As they can stand against the strongest head Where all the storms of passions mainly beat Passion can make ; inur'd to any hue On flesh and blood: where honour, pow'r, renown, The world can cast ; that cannot cast that mind Are only gay afflictions, golden toil;

Out of her form of goodness, that doth sec Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet

Both what the best and worst of earth can be. As frailty doth ; and only great doth seem

Which makes, that whatsoever here befals, To little minds, who do it so esteem.

You in the region of yourself remain : He looks upon the mightiest monarch's wars Where no vain breath of th' impudent molests, But only as on stately robberies ;

That hath secur'd within the brazen walls Where evermore the fortune that prevails

Of a clear conscience, that (without all stain) Must be the right : the ill-succeeding mars

Rises in peace, in innocency rests : The fairest and the best-fac'd enterprize.

Whilst all that malice from without procures, Great pirate Pompey lesser pirates quails :

Shews her own ugly heart, but hurts not yours. Justice, he sees (as if seduced) still

And whereas none rejoice more in revenge, Conspires with pow's, whose cause must not be ill. Than women use to

; yet you well know He sees the face of right t appear as manifold That wrong is better check’d by being contemn'd As are the passions of uncertain man ;

Than being pursued ; leaving to him t'avenge, Who puts it in all colours, all attires,

To whom it appertains. Wherein you shew
To serve his ends, and make his courses hold. How worthily your clearness hath condemn'd
He sees, that let deceit work what it can,

Base Malediction, living in the dark,
Plot and contrive base ways to high desires ; That at the rays of goodness still doth bark.
That the all-guiding Providence doth yet

Knowing the heart of man is set to be
All disappoint, and mocks this smoke of wit. The centre of this world, above the which

Nor is he mov'd with all the thunder-cracks These revolutions of disturbances
Of tyrants' threats, or with the surly brow

Still roll; where all th' aspects of misery
Of pow'r, that proudly sits on others' crimes : Predominate : whose strong effects are such,
Charg'd with more crying sins than those he checks. As he must bear, being pow’rless to redress :
The storms of sad confusion, that may grow

And that unless above himself he can
Up in the present for the coming times,

Erect himself, how poor a thing is man! Appal not him; that hath no side at all,

And how turmoild they are that level lie But of himself, and knows the worst can fall. With earth, and cannot lift themselves from thence;

Although his heart (so near ally'd to earth) That never are at peace with their desires, Cannot but pity the perplexed state

But work beyond their years; and ev'n deny Of troublous and distress'd mortality,

Dotage her rest, and hardly will dispense That thus make way unto the ugly birth

With death. That when ability expires, Of their own sorrows, and do still beget

Desire lives still_So much delight they have, Affliction upon imbecility :

To carry toil and travail to the grave. Yet seeing thus the course of things must run, Whose ends you see ; and what can be the best He looks thereon not strange, but as fore-done. They reach unto, when they have cast the sum

And whilst distraught ambition compasses, And reck’nings of their glory. And you know, And is encompass'd;

whilst as craft deceives, This floating life hath but this port of rest, And is deceiv'd; whilst man doth ransack man, A heart prepar'd, that fears no ill to come. And builds on blood, and rises by distress;

And that man's greatness rests but in his shew, And th' inheritance of desolation leaves

The best of all whose days consumed are To great expecting hopes : he looks thereon, Either in war, or peace-conceiving war. As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye,

This concord, madam, of a well-tun'd mind And bears no venture in impiety.

Hath been so set by that in-working hand

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