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From “Poly-Olbion”
YOU goodly sister floods, how happy is your state! | |
| Or should I more commend your features or your fate, | |
| That Milford, which this isle her greatest port doth call, | |
| Before your equal floods is lotted to your fall? | |
| Where was sail ever seen, or wind hath ever blown, | 5 |
| Whence Penbrooke yet hath heard of haven like her own? | |
| She bids Dungleddy dare Iberia’s proudest road, | |
| And chargeth her to send her challenges abroad | |
| Along the coast of France, to prove if any be | |
| Her Milford that dare match: so absolute is she. | 10 |
| And Clethy coming down from Wrenyvaur her sire | |
| (A hill that thrusts his head into the etherial fire) | |
| Her sister’s part doth take, and dare avouch as much; | |
| And Percily the Proud, whom nearly it doth touch, | |
| Said he would bear her out, and that they all should know. | 15 |
| And therewithal he struts, as though he scorned to show | |
| His head below the heaven when he of Milford spake: | |
| But there was not a port the prize durst undertake. | |
| So highly Milford is in every mouth renowned, | |
| No haven hath aught good, in her that is not found. | 20 |
| Whereas the swelling surge, that, with his foamy head, | |
| The gentler-looking land with fury menaced, | |
| With his encountering wave no longer there contends; | |
| But sitting mildly down like perfect ancient friends, | |
| Unmoved of any wind which way soe’er it blow, | 25 |
| And rather seem to smile than knit an angry brow. | |
| The ships with shattered ribs scarce creeping from the seas, | |
| On her sleek bosom ride with such deliberate ease, | |
| As all her passed storms she holds but mean and base, | |
| So she may reach at length this most delightful place, | 30 |
| By nature with proud cleeves invironed about, | |
| To crown the goodly road: where builds the falcon stout, | |
| Which we the gentle call; whose fleet and active wings | |
| It seems that Nature made when most she thought on kings; | |
| Which managed to the lure, her high and gallant flight | 35 |
| The vacant sportful man so greatly doth delight, | |
| That with her nimble quills his soul doth seem to hover, | |
| And lie the very pitch that lusty bird doth cover. | |
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