The Peake ode

How dull are They
That can consume day after Day
In furrowing up of dirt and Clay

Whilst in the Peak a wimbles bore
May bring them up such ore
As that They need not t'think of wanting more

Yet ther are some more stupid sure
Who will a tedious chase enduer
Or rend their throats after a kite to luer

When as the Phenix of the Sharper Hill
All with those rareties can fill
That may deprive them of all other will

Awake my Mun and let us not be stilde
(Because within a forrest) wilde
The woods as Hills have Conies Tame and milde

If such be Thear let us again goe on
For else the Season will be past and gon
Now'ts fit that each male Deer his head Had-on.