This while we are abroad,
Shall we not touch our lyre?
Shall we not sing an ode?
Shall that holy fire
In us that strongly glowed
In this cold air expire?

Long since the summer laid
Her lusty brav'ry down,
The autumn half is wayed
And Boreas 'gins to frown,
Since now I did behold
Great Brute's first builded town.

Though in the utmost Peak
A while we do remain,
Amongst the mountains bleak
Exposed to sleet and rain,
No sport our hours shall break
To exercise our vein.

What though bright Phoebus' beams
Refresh the southern ground
And though the princely Thames
With beauteous nymphs abound,
And by old Camber's streams
Be many wonders found,

Yet many rivers clear
Here glide in silver swathes,
And what of all most dear,
Buxton's delicious bathes,
Strong ale and noble cheer
T'assuage breme winter's scathes.

Those grim and horrid caves,
Whose looks affright the day,
Wherein nice nature saves
What she would not bewray,
Our better leisure craves,
And doth invite 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.