THE next in place Earth judg'd to be her due,
Siſter (quoth ſhee)[1] I come not ſhort of you,
In wealth and uſe I do ſurpaſs you all,
And mother earth of old men did me call:
Such is[2] my fruitfulneſs, an Epithite,
Which none ere gave, or you could claim of right
Among my praiſes this I count not leaſt,
I am th'original of man and beaſt.
To tell what ſundry fruits my fat ſoil yields
In Vineyards, Gardens, Orchards & Corn-fields,
Their kinds, their taſts, their colors & their ſmells
Would ſo paſs time I could ſay nothing elſe:
The rich the poor, wiſe, fool, and every ſort
Of theſe ſo common things can make report.
To tell you of my countryes and my Regions,
Soon would they paſs not hundreds but legions:
My cities famous, rich and populous,
Whoſe numbers now are grown innumerous.
I have not time to think of every part,
Yet let me name my Grecia, 'tis my heart.
For learning arms and arts I love it well,
But chiefly 'cauſe the Muſes there did dwell.
Ile here skip ore my mountains reaching skyes,
Whether Pyrenean, or the Alpes, both lyes
On either ſide the country of the Gaules
Strong forts, from Spaniſh and Italian brawles.
