The Twenty-first Song

Now from New market comes the Muse,
Whose spacious Heath, shee wistly viewes,
Those Ancient Ditches and surueyes,
Which our first Saxons here did raise:
To Gogmagog then turnes her tale,
And shewes you Ring-tailes pleasant vale.
And to doe Cambridge all her Rites,
The Muses to her Towne inuites.
And lastly, Elies praise shee sings,
An end which to this Canto brings.

BY this our little rest, thus hauing gotten breath,
And fairely in our way, vpon Newmarket-Heath:
That great and ancient Ditch, which vs expected long,
Inspired by the Muse, at her arriuall song:
O Time, what earthly thing with thee it selfe can trust,
When thou in thine owne course, art to thy selfe vniust!
Dost thou contract with death, and to obliuion giue
Thy glories, after them, yet shamefully dar'st liue?
O Time, hadst thou preseru'd, what labouring man hath done,
Thou long before this day, mightst to thy selfe haue wonne
A Deitie with the gods, and in thy Temple plac'd,
But sacriligious thou, hast all great workes defac'd;
For though the things themselues haue suffered by thy theft,
Yet with their Ruines, thou, to ages mightst haue left,
Those Monuments who rear'd, and not haue suffred thus
Posteritie so much, t'abuse both thee and vs.
I, by th' East Angles first, who from this Heath arose,
The long'st and largest Ditch, to check their Mercian foes;
Because my depth, and breadth, so strangely doth exceed,
Mens low and wretched thoughts, they constantly decreed,
That by the Deuils helpe, I needs must raised be,
Wherefore the Deuils-Ditch they basely named me:
When ages long before, I bare Saint Edmonds name,
Because vp to my side, (some haue supposed) came
The Liberties bequeath'd to his more sacred Shrine.
Therefore my fellow Dykes, ye ancient friends of mine,
That out of earth were raisd, by men whose minds were great,
It is no maruaile, though Obliuion doe you threat.
First, Flemditch next my selfe, that art of greatest strength,
That doest extend thy course full seauen large mile in length:
And thou the Fiuemile cald, yet not lesse deare to me;
With Brenditch, that againe is shortest of the three,
Can you suppose your selues at all to be respected,
When you may see my truth's bely'd, and so neglected:
Therefore deare Heath, liue still in prosperous estate,
And let thy wel-fleec'd Flocks, from morne to euening late,
(By carefull Shepheards kept) reioyce thee with their praise;
And let the merry Larke, with her delicious layes,
Giue comfort to thy plaines, and let me onely lye,
(Though of the world contemn'd) yet gracious in thine eye.

Thus said, these ancient Dykes neglected in their ground,
Through the sad aged earth, sent out a hollow sound,
To gratulate her speech; when as we met againe,
With one whose constant heart, with cruell loue was slaine:
Old Gogmagog, a Hill of long and great renowne,
Which neere to Cambridge set, o'rlookes that learned Towne.
Of Balshams pleasant hilles, that by the name was knowne,
But with the monstrous times, he rude and barbarous growne,
A Gyant was become; for man hee cared not,
And so the fearefull name of Gogmagog had got:
Who long had borne good will to most delicious Grant:
But doubting lest some god his greatnesse might supplant.
For as that daintie Flood by Cambridge keepes her course,
He found the Muses left their old Beotian source,
Resorting to her banks, and euery little space,
He saw bright Phoebus gaze vpon her Christall face,
And through th'exhaled Fogs, with anger looked red,
To leaue his loued Nymph, when he went downe to bed.
Wherefore this Hill with loue, being fouly ouergone:
And one day as he found the louely Nymph alone,
Thus wooes her; Sweeting mine, if thou mine owne wilt be,
C'haue many a pretty gaud, I keepe in store for thee.
A nest of broad-fac'd Owles, and goodly Vrchins too;
Nay Nymph take heed of me, when I begin to wooe:
And better yet then this, a Bulchin twa yeares old,
A curld-pate Calfe it is, and oft could haue beene sold:
And yet beside all this, c'haue goodly Beare-whelps twa,
Full daintie for my Ioy, when shee's dispos'd to play,
And twentie Sowes of Lead, to make our wedding Ring;
Bezides, at Sturbridge Fayre, chill buy thee many a thing:
Chill zmouch thee euery morne, before the Sunne can rise,
And looke my manly face, in thy sweet glaring eyes.

Thus said, he smug'd his Beard, and stroked vp his hayre,
As one that for her loue he thought had offered fayre:
Which to the Muses, Grant did presently report,
Wherewith they many a yeare shall make them wondrous sport.

When Ringdale in her selfe, a most delicious Dale,
Who hauing heard too long the barbarous Mountaines tale,
Thus thinketh in her selfe, Shall I be silenc'd, when
Rude Hills, and Ditches, digg'd by discontented men,
Are ayded by the Muse; their Mind's at large to speake:
Besides my sister Vales supposing me but weake,
Iudge meanly of my state, when she ńo longer stayd,
But in her owne behalfe, thus to the other said.

What though betwixt two Sheeres, I be by Fortune throwne,
That neither of them both can challenge me her owne,
Yet am I not the lesse, nor lesse my Fame shall be:
Your Figures are but base, when they are set by me;
For Nature in your shapes, notoriously did erre,
But skillfull was in me, cast pure Orbiculer.
Nor can I be compar'd so like to any thing,
By him that would expresse my shape, as to a Ring:
For Nature bent to sport, and various in her trade,
Of all the British Vales, of me a circle made:
For in my very midst, there is a swelling ground,
About which Ceres Nymphs dance many a wanton Round.
The frisking Fairy there, as on the light ayre borne,
Oft runne at Barley-breake vpon the eares of Corne;
And catching drops of dew in their lasciuious chases,
Doe cast the liquid pearle in one anothers faces.
What they in largenesse haue, that beare themselues so hie,
In my most perfect forme, and delicacie, I,
For greatnesse of my graine, and finenesse of my grasse;
This Ilc scarce hath a Vale, that Ringdale doth surpasse.

When more she would haue said, but suddenly there sprung,
A confident report, that through the Countrey rung,
That Cam her daintiest Flood, long since entituled Grant,
Whose fountaine Ashwell crown'd, with many a vpright plant.
In sallying on for Ouze, determin'd by the way,
To intertaine her friends the Muses with a Lay.
Wherefore to shew her selfe er'e she to Cambridge came,
Most worthy of that Towne to which she giues the name,
Takes in her second head, from Linton comming in,
By Shelford hauing slid, which straightway she doth win:
Then which, a purer Streame, a delicater Brooke,
Bright Phoebus in his course, doth scarcely ouerlooke.
Thus furnishing her bankes; as sweetly she doth glide
Towards Cambridge, with rich Meads layd forth on either side;
And with the Muses oft, did by the way conuerse:
Wherefore it her behooues, that something she reherse,
The Sisters that concern'd, who whispered in her eare,
Such things as onely shee, and they themselues should heare,
A wondrous learned Flood; and she that had been long,
(Though silent, in her selfe, yet) vexed at the wrong
Done to Apollo's Priests, with heauenly fire infused,
Oft by the worthlesse world, vnworthily abused:
With whom, in their behalfe, hap ill, or happen well,
Shee meant to haue a bout, euen in despight of Hell,
When humbly lowting low, her due obedience done,
Thus like a Satyre shee, deliberatly begun.

My Inuectiue, thus quoth she, I onely ayme at you,
(Of what degree soe'r) ye wretched worldly crue,
In all your brainlesse talke, that still direct your drifts
Against the Muses sonnes, and their most sacred gifts,
That hate a Poets name, your vilenesse to aduance,
For euer be you damn'd in your dull ignorance.
Slaue, he whom thou dost thinke, so meane and poore to be,
Is more then halfe diuine, when he is set by thee.
Nay more, I will avow, and iustifie him then,
He is a god, compar'd with ordinary men.
His braue and noble heart, here in a heauen doth dwell,
Aboue those worldly cares, that sinks such sots to hell:
A caitife if there be more viler then thy selfe,
If he through basenesse light vpon this worldly pelfe,
The Chimney-sweepe, or he that in the dead of night,
Doth emptie lothsome vaults, may purchase all your right;
When not the greatest King, should he his treasure raine,
The Muses sacred gifts, can possibly obtaine;
No, were he Monarch of the vniuersall earth,
Except that gift from heauen, be breath'd into his birth.
How transitory be those heaps of rotting mud,
Which onely to obtaine, yee make your chiefest good?
Perhaps to your fond sonnes, your ill-got goods yee leaue,
You scarcely buried are, but they your hopes deceiue.
Haue I not knowne a wretch, the purchase of whose ground,
Was valued to be sould, at threescore thousand pound;
That in a little time, in a poore threed-bare coat,
Hath walk'd from place to place, to beg a silly groat?
When nothing hath of yours, or your base broods been left,
Except poore widdowes cries, to memorize your theft.
That curse the Serpent got in Paradise for hire,
Descend vpon you all, from him your deuillish Sire,
Groueling vpon the earth, to creepe vpon your breast,
And licke the lothsome dust, like that abhorred beast.

But leaue these hatefull heards, and let me now declare,
In th'Helliconian […], who rightly christned are:
Not such as basely sooth the Humour of the Time,
And slubberingly patch vp some slight and shallow Rime,
Vpon Pernassus top, that striue to be instal'd,
Yet neuer to that place were by the Muses call'd.
Nor yet our Mimick Apes, out of their bragging pride,
That faine would seeme to be, what nature them denide;
Whose Verses hobling runne, as with disioynted bones,
And make a viler noyse, then carts vpon the stones;
And these forsooth must be, the Muses onely heires,
When they but Bastards are, and foundlings none of theirs,
Inforcing things in Verse for Poesie vnfit,
Mere filthy stuffe, that breakes out of the sores of wit:
What Poet reckes the praise vpon such Anticks heap'd,
Or enuies that their lines, in Cabinets are kept?
Though some fantasticke foole promoue their ragged Rymes,
And doe transcribe them o'r a hundred seuerall times,
And some fond women winnes, to thinke them wondrous rare,
When they lewd beggery trash, nay very gibbrish are.
Giue me those Lines (whose touch the skilfull eare to please)
That gliding flow in state, like swelling Euphrates,
In which things naturall be, and not in falsely wrong:
The Sounds are fine and smooth, the Sense is full and strong,
Not bumbasted with words, vaine ticklish eares to feed;
But such as may content the perfect man to read.
What is of Paynters said, is of true Poets rife,
That he which doth expresse things neerest to the life,
Doth touch the very poynt, nor needs he adde thereto:
For that the vtmost is, that Art doth striue to doe.

Had Orpheus, whose sweet Harpe (so musically strung)
Intised Trees, and Rocks, to follow him along:
Th'moralitie of which, is that his knowledge drew
The stony, blockish rout, that nought but rudenesse knew,
T'imbrace a ciuill life, by his inticing Layes.
Had he compos'd his lines, like many of these dayes,
Which to be vnderstood, doe take in it disdaine:
Nay, Oedipus may fayle, to know what they would meane.
If Orpheus had so play'd, not to be vnderstood,
Well might those men haue thought the Harper had been wood;
Who might haue fit him downe, the trees and rockes among,
And been a veryer blocke, then those to whom he sung.

O noble Cambridge then, my most beloued Towne,
In glory flourish still, to heighten thy renowne:
In womans perfect shape, still be thy Embleme right,
Whose one hand holds a Cup, the other beares a Light.
Phocis bedew'd with drops, that from Pernassus fall,
Let Cirrha seeke to her, nor be you least of […],
Yee faire Beotian Thebes, and Thespia still to pay
My Cambridge all her Rites: Cirrhea send this way.
O let the thrice-three Maids, their dewes vpon thee raine,
From Aganippa's fount, and hoofe-plow'd Hyppocrene.
Mount Pindus, thou that art the Muses sacred place
In Thessaly; and thou, O Pimpla, that in Thrace
They chose for their owne hill, then thou Pernassus hye,
Vpon whose by-clift top, the sacred company
About Apollo sit; and thou O Flood, with these
Pure Hellicon, belou'd of the Pierides.
With Tempe, let thy walks, and shades, be brought to her,
And all your glorious gifts vpon my Towne conferre.

This said, the louely Grant glides eas'ly on along,
To meet the mighty Ouze, which with her watry throng,
The Cantabrigian fields had entred, taking in
Th'in-Iled Elies earth, which strongly she doth win
From Grants soft-neighbouring grounds, when as the fruitfull Ile,
Much wondring at her selfe, thought surely all this while,
That by her silence shee had suffred too much wrong.
Wherefore in her selfe praise, loe thus the Iland sung.

Of all the Marshland Iles, I Ely am the Queene:
For Winter each where sad, in me lookes fresh and greene.
The Horse, or other beast, o'rway'd with his owne masse,
Lies wallowing in my Fennes, hid ouer head in grasse:
And in the place where growes ranke Fodder for my Neat;
The Turffe which beares the Hay, is wondrous needfull Peat:
My full and batning earth, needs not the Plowmans paines;
The Rils which runne in me, are like the branched vaines
In humane Bodies seene; those Ditches cut by hand,
From the surrounding Meres, to winne the measured land,
To those choyce waters, I most fitly may compare,
Wherewith nice women vse to blanch their Beauties rare.
Hath there a man beene borne in me, that neuer knew
Of Watersey the Leame, or th'other cal'd the New.
The Frithdike neer'st my midst, and of another sort,
Who euer fish'd, or fowl'd, that cannot make report
Of sundry Meres at hand, vpon my Westerne way,
As Ramsey mere, and Vg, with the great Whittelsey:
Of the aboundant store of Fish and Fowle there bred,
Which whilst of Europes Iles Great Britaine is the Head.
No Meres shall truely tell, in them, then at one draught,
More store […] either kinds hath with the Net been caught:
Which though some pettie Iles doe challenge them to be
Their owne, yet must those Iles likwise acknowledge me
Their soueraigne. Nor yet let that Islet Ramsey shame,
Although to […]. Mere shee onely giues the name;
Nor Huntingdon, […] me though she extend her grounds,
Twit me that I at all vsurpe vpon her Bounds.
Those Meres may well be proud, that I will take them in,
Which otherwise perhaps forgotten might haue bin.
Besides my towred Phane, and my rich Citied seat,
With Villages, and Dorpes, to make me most compleat.

Thus broke she off her speech, when as the Muse awhile,
Desirous to repose, and rest her with the Ile,
Here consumates her Song, and doth fresh courage take,
With warre in the next Booke, the Muses to awake.