Ode Written in the Peake

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 air expire?

    Long since the summer laid
      Her lusty Brav'ry down,
    The Autumne halfe is way'd,
      And Boreas 'gins to frown,                                    
    Since now I did behold
      Great Brutus' first builded town.

    Though in the utmost peak,
      A while we doe remain,
    Amongst the mountains bleak
      Expos'd to sleet and rain,
    No Sport our hours shall break,
      To exercise our vein.

    What though bright Phoebus' beams
      Refresh the southere ground,                                  
    And though the princely Thames
      With beautious nymphs abound,
    And by old Camber's streams
      Be many Wonders found;

    Yet many Rivers clear
      Here glide in siluer swathes,
    And what of all most deare,
      Buxton's delicious baths,
    Strong ale and noble cheer,
      T' assuage breem Winter's scathes.                             

    Those grim and horrid caves,
      Whose looks affright the day,
    Wherein nice Nature saves,
      What she would not bewray,
    Our better leasure craves,
      And doth inuite our Lay.

    In places far or near,
      Or famous, or obscure,
    Where wholesome is the air,
      Or where the most impure,                                     
    All times, and everywhere,
      The Muse is still in ure.