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FRom CORNWAL'S Foreland to the Cliffs
of DOVER,
O're hilly CAMBRIA, and all ENGLAND
over,
Thy Muse hath borne me; and (in foure dayes)
showne
More goodly Prospects, then I could have
knowne
In foure yeares Travailes; if I had not thus
Beene mounted, on thy winged PEGASUS.
The famous Rivers, the delightsome
Fountaines,
The fruitfull Vallies, the steepe-rising
Mountaines,
The new built Towres, the ancient-ruin'd
Walls,
The wholesome Baths, the bedds of
Mineralls;
The nigh-worne Monuments of former Ages;
The Workes of Peace, the Marks of
Civill-rages;
The Woods, the Forrests, and the open
Plaines,
With whatsoe're this spacious Land
containes,
For Profit, or for Pleasure: I
o're-looke,
(As from one Station) when I read thy
Booke.
Nor doe mine eyes from thence behold alone,
Such Things, as for the present there are
done,
(Or Places, as this day, they doe appeare)
But Actions past, and Places as they
were
A hundred Ages since, as well as now:
Which, he that wearies out his feet to know,
Shall never finde, nor yet so cheape attaine
(With so much ease and profit) halfe that againe.
Good-speed befall Thee; who hast wag'd a Taske,
That better Censures, and Rewards doth
aske,
Then these Times have to give. For, those that
should
The honors of true POESY uphold,
Are (for the most part) such as doe preferre
The fawning Lynes of every Pamphleter,
Before the best-writ POEMS. And their sight
Or cannot, or else dares not, eye the Flight
Of free-borne NUMBERS; least bright VIRTUE'S
fame
Which flies in those, reflect on them, their
shame.
Tis well; thy happy Judgement, could devise,
Which way, a man this Age might Poetize,
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