WEr't granted me to choose, How I would end my days, Since I this life must lose; It should be in your praise: For there are no Bays Can be set above You.
S'impossibly I love You; And for You sit so high (Whence none may remove You) In my clear Poesy, That I oft deny You so ample merit.
The freedom of my spirit Maintaining, still, my cause; Your sex not to inherit, Urging the Salic Laws: But your virtue draws From me every due.
Thus still You me pursue, That nowhere I can dwell; By fear made just to You, Who naturally rebel; Of You that excel That should I still endite.
Yet will You want some rite. That lost in your high praise, I wander to and fro; As seeing sundry ways: Yet which the right not know To get out of this Maze.
ODE 7.
[An Ode written in the Peak.]
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 glowed, In this cold air expire?
Long since the Summer laid Her lusty bravery down; The Autumn half is weighed, And Boreas 'gins to frown: Since now I did behold Great Brute's first builded town.
Though in the utmost Peak, A while we do remain: Amongst the mountains bleak, Exposed to sleet and rain: No sport our hours shall break, To exercise our vein.
What though bright Phœbus' beams Refresh the southern ground: And though the princely Thames With beauteous Nymphs abound; And by old Camber's streams Be many wonders found:
Yet many rivers clear Here glide in silver swathes; And what of all most dear, Buxton's delicious baths, Strong ale, and noble cheer, T'assuage breem Winter's scathes.
Those grim and horrid caves, Whose looks affright the day; Wherein nice Nature saves What she would not bewray: Our better leisure craves, And doth invite our Lay.
In places far, or near, Or famous, or obscure; Where wholesome is the air, Or where the most impure; All times, and everywhere, The Muse is still in ure.