Not far from off that slimie southerne strand,
By which with Isis, Thames runnes hand in hand,
In that high mountaine countrie’s fruitfull soile,
That nere in fight of forren foes tooke foile,
Where those same famous stout men-mouing wood,
Against the Norman conqueror boldly stood,
Was my abode: when foule infection’s breath
In Troynouant imploy’d the workes of death.
There in this wofull time vpon a day,
So soone as Tython’s loue-lasse gan display