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To which she by the sound apparantly doth show,
The season foule of faire, as then the wind doth blow:
For when they to the North, the noyse doe easiest heare,
They constantly affirme the weather will be cleere;
And when they to the South, againe they boldly say,
It will be clouds or raine the next approaching day.
To the Hibernick Gulfe, when soone the River
hasts,
And to those queachy Sands, from whence her selfe she
casts,
She likewise leaves her name as every place where she,
In her cleare course doth come, by her should honored be.
But back into the North from hence our course doth lye,
As from this fall of Can, still keeping in our
eye,
The source of long liv'd Lun, I long-liv'd doe her
call;
For of the British Floods, scarce one amongst them
all,
Such state as to her selfe, the Destinies assigne,
By christning in her Course a Countie Palatine,
For Luncaster so nam'd; the Fort upon the Lun,
And Lancashire the name from Lancaster
begun:
Yet though she be a Flood, such glory that doth gaine,
In that the British Crowne doth to her state
pertaine,
Yet Westmerland alone, not onely boasts her birth,
But for her greater good the kind Westerian earth,
Cleere Burbeck her bequeaths, and Barrow to
attend
Her grace, till shee her name to Lancaster doe
lend.
With all the speed we can, to Cumberland we hye,
(Stil longing to salute the utmost Albany)
By Eden, issuing out of Husseat-Morvill
Hill,
And pointing to the North, as then a little Rill,
There simply takes her leave of her sweet sister
Swale,
Borne to the selfe same Sire, but with a stronger gale,
Tow'rds the Humber hyes her course, but Eden
making on,
Through Malerstrang hard by, a Forrest woe begone
In love with Edens eyes, of the cleere Naiades
kind,
Whom thus the Wood-Nymph greets: What passage thou shalt
find,
My most beloved Brook, in making to thy Bay,
That wandring art to wend through many a crooked way,
Farre under hanging Hills, through many a cragged strait,
And few the watry kind, upon thee to await,
Opposed in thy course with many a rugged Cliffe,
Besides the Northern winds against thy stream to stiffe,
As by maine strength they meant to stop thee in thy
course,
And send the easly back to Morvill to thy source.
O my bright lovely Brooke, whose name doth beare the
sound
Of Gods first Garden-plot, th'imparadized ground,
Wherein he placed Man, from whence by sinne he fell.
O little blessed Brooke, how doth my bosome swell, / With
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