And in Regions farre
    Such Heroes bring yee foorth,
      As those from whom We came,
      And plant Our name,
    Vnder that Starre
    Not knowne vnto our North. 60

    And as there Plenty growes
    Of Lawrell euery where,
      APOLLO’S Sacred tree,
      You may it see,
    A Poets Browes
    To crowne, that may sing there.

    Thy Voyages attend,
    Industrious HACKLVIT,
      Whose Reading shall inflame
      Men to seeke Fame, 70
    And much commend
    To after-Times thy Wit.

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 vs that strongly glow’d,
      In this cold Ayre expire?

    Long since the Summer layd
      Her lustie Brau’rie downe,
    The Autumne halfe is way’d,
      And BOREAS ’gins to frowne, 10
    Since now I did behold
      Great BRVTES first builded Towne.

    Though in the vtmost 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.

    What though bright PHOEBVS Beames
      Refresh the Southerne Ground, 20
    And though the Princely Thames
      With beautious Nymphs abound,
    And by old Camber’s Streames
      Be many Wonders found;

    Yet many Riuers cleare
      Here glide in Siluer Swathes,
    And what of all most deare,
      Buckston’s delicious Bathes,
    Strong Ale and Noble Cheare,
      T’ asswage breeme Winters scathes. 30

    Those grim and horrid Caues,
      Whose Lookes affright the day,
    Wherein nice Nature saues,
      What she would not bewray,
    Our better leasure craues,
      And doth inuite our Lay.

    In places farre or neere,
      Or famous, or obscure,
    Where wholesome is the Ayre,
      Or where the most impure, 40
    All times, and euery-where,
      The Muse is still in vre.

HIS DEFENCE AGAINST THE IDLE CRITICK

    The Ryme nor marres, nor makes,
    Nor addeth it, nor takes,
      From that which we propose;
    Things imaginarie
    Doe so strangely varie,
      That quickly we them lose.

    And what ’s quickly begot,
    As soone againe is not,
      This doe I truely know: 
    Yea, and what ’s borne with paine, 10
    That Sense doth long’st retaine,
      Gone with a greater Flow.