Of Albion’s glorious isle the wonders whilst I write,
The sundry varying soils, the pleasures infinite,
(Where heat kills not the cold, nor cold expells the heat,
The calms too mildly small, nor winds too roughly great,
Nor night doth hinder day, nor day the night doth wrong,
The summer not too short, the winter not too long,)
What help shall I invoke to aid my muse the while?
Thou Genius of the place (this most renowned isle)
Which lived’st long before the all-earth-drowning flood,
Whilst yet the world did swarm with her gigantic brood,