My higher rising heaths hold distance with my breast.
Thus to her proper song the burthen still she bare;
Yet for my dainty pikes I am without compare.
By this to Lincoln town, upon whose lofty scite
Whilst wistly Wytham looks with wonderful delight,
Enamour’d of the state and beauty of the place
That her of all the rest especially doth grace,
Leaving her former course, in which she first set forth,
Which seem’d to have been directly to the North,
She runs her silver front into the muddy fen