An Ode Written In The Peake

A poem by Michael Drayton

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,
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,
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.

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,
All times, and euery-where,
The Muse is still in vre.

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