Durst I expostulate with Providence, 
I then should ask, wherein the innocence
Of my poor undesigning infancy,
Could Heaven offend to such a black degree,
As for th' offence to damn me to a place
Where Nature only suffers in disgrace.
A Country so deform'd, the Traveller 
Would swear those parts Natures pudenda were
Like Warts and Wens hills on the one  side swell,
To all but Natives inaccessible;
Th'other a blue scrofulous scum defiles,
Flowing from th' earths impostumated boyles;
That seems the steps (Mountains on Mountains thrown)
By which the Giants storm'd the Thunderer’s Throne,
This from that prospect seems the sulph'rous flood,
Where sinful Sodom and Gomorrah stood.
'Twixt these twin-Provinces of Britain’s shame,
The Silver Dove (how pleasant is that name)
Runs through a Vale high crested Cliffs o'reshade;
(By her fair Progress only pleasant made)
But with so swift a Torrent in her course,
As shews the Nymph flies from her native source,
To seek what there's deny'd, the Suns warm Beams,
And to embrace Trends prouder swelling streams.
In this so craggy, ill-contriv'd a Nook. 
Of this our little world, this pretty Brook 
Alas! is all the recompense I share,
For all th' intemperancies of the Air, 
Perpetual Winter, endless solitude, 
Or the society of men so rude,
That it is ten times worse. Thy murmurs ( Dove)
Or humour Lovers; or men fall in love
With thy bright beauties, and thy fair blue eyes
Wound like a Parthian, whilst the shooter flies.
Of all fair Thetis Daughters none so bright,
So pleasant none to taste, none to the sight,
None yields the gentle Angler such delight.
To which the bounty of her stream is such,
As only with a swift and transient touch,
T' enrich her sterile borders as she glides,
And force sweet flowers from their marble sides.
North-East from this fair Rivers head there lies
A Country that abounds with Rarities, 
They call them Wonders there, and be they so;
But the whole Country sure's a wonder too,
And Mother of the rest, which seven are,
And one of them so singularly rare,
As does indeed amount to miracle,
And all the Kingdom boasts so far excel,
It ought not, I confess to be prophan'd
By my poor Muse; nor should an artless hand
Presume to take a Crayon up to trace,
But the faint Land-scape of so brave a place.
Yet, noble Chatsworth, for I speak of thee,
Pardon the love will prompt the injury
My Pen must do thee, when, before I end,
I fix dishonour, where I would commend.
The first of these I meet with in my way,
Is a vast Cave, which the old people say
One Poole an Out-law made his residence;
But why he did so, or for what offence,
The Beagles of the Law should press so near,
As, spite of horrors self, to earth him there;
Is in our times a Riddle, and in this
Tradition most unkindly silent is
But whatsoe're his Crime, than such a Cave
A worse imprisonment he could not have.
At a high Mountains foot, whose lofty cressed
O're-looks the Marshy Prospect of the West; 
Under its Base there is an Overture 
Which Summer Weeds do render so obscure,
The careless Traveller may pass, and ne're
Discover, or suspect an entry there
But such a one there is, as we might well
Think it the Crypto-porticos of Hell, 
Had we not been instructed, that the Gate,
Which to Destruction leads, is nothing straight.
Through a blind door (which some poor Woman there
Still keeps the Key of, that it may keep her)
Men bowing low, take leave of days fair light,
To crowd themselves into the Womb of Night,
Through such a low and narrow pass, that it
For Badgers, Wolves, and Foxes seems more fit;
Or for the yet less sorts of Chases, then
T'admit the Statures, and the Bulks of men,
Could it to reason any way appear,
That men could find out any business there.
But having fifteen paces crept or more,
Through pointed stones and dirt upon all four,
The gloomy Grotto lets men upright rise,
Although they were six times Goliath's size.
There, looking upward, your astonish'd sight
Beholds the glory of the sparkling light
Th' enamel'd Roof darts round about the place,
With so subduing, but ingrateful rays;
As to put out the lights, by which alone
They receive lustre, that before had none,
And must to darkness be resign'd when they are gone.
But here a roaring Torrent bids you stand,
Forcing you climb a Rock on the right hand,
Which hanging, pent-house-like, does overlook
The dreadful Channel of the rapid Brook,
So deep, and black, the very thought does make
My brains turn giddy, and my eye-balls ache.
Over this dangerous Precipice you crawl,
Lost if you slip, for if you slip you fall;
But whither, faith 'tis no great matter, when
Y'are sure ne'er to be seen alive again.
Propped round with Peasants, on you trembling go,
Whilst, every step you take, your Guides do show
In the uneven Rock the uncouth shapes
Of Men, of Lions, Horses, Dogs, and Apes 
But so resembling each the fancied shape,
The Man might be the Horse, the Dog the Ape. 
And straight just in your way a  stone appears,
Which the resemblance of a Hay-cock bears,
Some four foot high, and beyond that a less
Of the same Figure; which do still increase
In height, and bulk, by a continual drop,
Which upon each distilling from the top,
And falling still exactly on the Crown,
There break themselves to mists, which trickling down,
Crust into stone, and (but with leasure) swell
The sides, and still advance the Miracle.
So that in time, they would be tall enough,
If there were need, to prop the hanging Roof,
Did not sometimes the curious visitors,
To steal a treasure, is not justly theirs,
Break off much more at one injurious blow,
Than can again in many Ages grow.
These the Wise Natives call the Fonts; but there
Descending from the Roof there does appear
A bright transparent  Cloud, which from above,
By those false lights, does downwards seem to move,
Like a Machine, which, when some God appears,
We see descend upon our Theatres. 
Unlike in figure, and in posture, this
With the two nam'd before, owes its increase
To the same cause the others grow up by,
Namely, the petrifying quality
Of those bright drops, which trickling one by one,
Deliberately crust, as they glide, to stone;
By which the Styria longer, bigger grows,
And must touch ground at last, but when, who knows,
To see these thriving by these various ways,
It seems, methinks, as if the first did raise
Their heads the pond'rous Vault so to sustain,
Whilst th'other pendant Pillar seems to strain,
And, at full stretch, endeavour to extend
A stable foot to the same needless end.
And this forsooth the Bacon-Flitch they call,
Not that it does resemble one at all;
For it is round, not flat but I suppose
Because it hangs i'th' roof like one of those,
And shines like salt, Peake Bacon-eaters came
At first to call it by that greasy name.
This once a fellow had, another Stone
Of the same colour, and proportion
But long ago, I know not how, the one
Fell down, or eaten was; for now 'tis gone.
The next thing you arrive at, is a  Stone,
In truth a very rare, and pretty one;
Which, on a Rocks sharp ridge taking its root,
Rises from thence in a neat round turn'd foot
Twelve inches high? or more, wherein are all
The mouldings of a round-turn'd Pedestal. 
Whence bulbing out in figure of a Sphere, 
Some two foot and a half Diameter, 
The whole above is finished in a small
Pellucid Spire crown'd with a Crystal Ball.
This, very aptly, they Pool's Lanthorn name,
Being like those in Admiral Poops that flame.
For several Paces beyond these, you meet
With nothing worth observing, save your feet,
Which with great caution you must still dispose,
Lest, by mischance, should you once footing lose,
Your own true story only serve to grace
The lying Fables of the uncouth place
But moving forward o're the glassy shore,
You hear the Torrent now much louder roar,
With such a noise striking th' astonisht ear,
As does inform some Cataract is near
When soon the deluge, that your fear attends
Contemptibly in a small Riv'let ends,
Which falling low with a precipitous wave,
The dreadful Eccho of the spacious Cave,
Gives it that hollow sound a man would fear
The Sea was breaking in a Channel there
And yet above the Current's not so wide
To put a Maid to an indecent stride;
Which through bright Pebbles trembling there does crawl,
As if afraid of the approaching fall,
Which is a dreadful one; but yet how deep
I never durst extend my neck to peep.
Beyond this little Rill, before your eyes
You see a great transparent Pillar rise,
Of the same shining matter with the rest;
But such a one, as Nature does contest,
Though working in the dark, in this brave piece
With all the Obelisks of antique Greece; 
For all the Art the Chisel could apply,
Ne're wrought such curious folds of Drapery. 
Of this the figure is, as men should crowd
A vast Colossus in a Marble showed,
And yet the pleats so soft, and flowing are,
As finest folds, from finest looms they were;
But, far as hands can reach to give a blow,
By the rude Clowns broke, and disfigur'd so,
As may be well suppos'd, when all that come,
Carry some piece of the Rock Crystal home.
Of all these Rarities, this alone can claim
A doubtless right to everlasting fame,
The fairest, brightest Queen, that ever yet
On English ground unhappy footing set,
Having, to th' rest of th' Isles eternal shame,
Honor'd this Stone with her own splendid name.
For Scotland’s Queen, hither by Art betray'd,
And by false friendship after Captive made,
(As if she did nought but a Dungeon want
T' express the utmost rigor of restraint)
Coming to view this Cave, took so much pains,
For all the damp, and horror it contains,
To penetrate so far, as to this place,
And seeing it, with her own mouth to grace,
As her non ultra, this now famous Stone,
By naming, and declaring it her own;
Which, ever since so gloriously enstall'd,
Has been the Queen of Scots her Pillar call'd.
Illustrious Mary, it had happy been,
Had you then found a Cave like this to skreen
Your Sacred Person from those Frontier Spies, 
That of a Sovereign Princess durst make prize,
When Neptune too officiously bore
Your cred'lous Innocence to this faithless shore.
Oh England! once who hadst the only fame
Of being kind to all who hither came
For refuge, and protection; how couldst thou
So strangely alter thy Good Nature now,
Where there was so much excellence to move,
Not only thy compassion, but thy love
'Twas strange on earth, save Caledonian ground,
So impudent a villain could be found,
Such Majesty, and Sweetness to accuse;
Or after that a Judge would not refuse
Her Sentence to Pronounce; or that being done,
Even amongst bloody'st Hangmen, to find one
Durst, though her Face was veiled, and Neck laid down,
Strike off the fairest Head e're wore a Crown.
And what State-Policy there might be here,
Which does with right too often interfere,
I'm not to judge; yet thus far dare be bold,
A fouler Act the Sun did ne're behold,
And 'twas the worst, if not the only stain,
I'th' brightest Annals of a Female Reign.
Over the Brook you're now oblig'd to stride,
And, on the left hand, by this Pillars side
To seek new Wonders, though beyond this stone,
Unless you safe return, you'l meet with none,
And that indeed will be a kind of one
For from this place, the way does rise so steep,
Craggy, and wet, that who all safe does keep,
A stout, and faithful Genius has, that will
In Hells black Territories guard him still;
Yet to behold these vast prodigious Stones,
None who has any kindness for his bones,
Will venture to climb up, though I did once,
A certain symptom of an empty sconce;
But many more have done the like since then,
That now are wiser than to do't again.
Having swarm'd sevenscore paces up, or more
On the right hand you find a kind of floor,
Which twining back, hangs o're the Cave below,
Where, through a hole, your kind Conductors show
A Candle left on purpose at the Brook,
On which, with trembling horror, whilst you look,
You'l fancy't from that dreadful Precipice,
A Spark ascending from the black Abyss. 
Returning to your Road, you thence must still
Higher, and higher mount the dang'rous Hill,
Till, at the last, dirty, and tir'd enough,
Your giddy heads do touch the sparkling Roof.
And now you here a while to pant may sit,
To which Advent'rers have thought requisite
To add a Bottle, to express the love
They owe their Friends left in the world above.
And here I too would sheath my wearied Pen,
Were I not bound to bring you back again;
You therefore must return, but with much more
Deliberate circumspection, than before
Two Hob-nail Peakrills, one on either side,
Your arms supporting like a bashful Bride, 
Whilst a third steps before, kindly to meet
With his broad shoulders your extended feet,
And thus from Rock to Rock they slide you down,
Till to their footing you may add your own
Which is at the great Torrent, roars below,
From whence your Guides another Candle show
Left in the hole above, whose distant light,
Seems a Star peeping through a sullen night.
You there with far less painful steps, but yet
More dangerous still, the way you came repeat,
Your Peake-bred Convoy of rude Men and Boys,
All the way whooting with that dreadful noise,
A man would think it were the dismal yell
Of Souls tormented in the flames of Hell;
And I almost believ'd it, by the face
Our Masters give us of that unknown place.
But being conducted with this Triumph back,
Before y'are yet permitted leave to take
Of this Infernal Mansion, you must see
Where Master Poole, and his bold Yeomanry 
Took up their dark Apartments, which do lie
Over the narrow pass you entered by,
Up an ascent of easy mounting, where
They shew his Hall, his Parlour, Bed-Chamber, 
Withdrawing-Room, and Closet, and, to these,
His Kitchen, and his other Offices, 
And all contriv'd to justifie a Fable, 
That may indeed pass with the ign'rant Rabble,
And might serve him perhaps a day, or so
When close pursu'd; but men of sence must know,
Who of the place have took a serious view,
None but the Devil himself could live there two.
And I half think your selves are glad to hear
Your own deliverance to be so near;
Then once more through the narrow passage strain,
And you shall see the cheerful day again;
When, after two hours darkness, you will say
The Sun appears dressed in a brighter Ray 
Thus after long restraint, when once set free,
Men better taste the air of Liberty. 
Six hundred paces hence, and Northward still,
On the descent of such a little Hill, 
As by the rest of greater bulk, and same,
Environ'd round, scarcely deserves that name,
A Crystal Fountain Springs in healing streams,
Hot (though close shaded from the Suns warm beams,
 By a malicious Roof, that covers it,
So close, as not his prying eye t' admit
(That else where’s priviledg'd) here to behold
His beamy Face, and locks of burning Gold,
In the most flatt'ring mirror, that below
His travel round the spacious Globe can show)
So fair a Nymph, and so supremely bright,
The teeming Earth did never bring to light;
Nor does she rush into the world with noise
Like Neptune's ruder Sex of Roaring Boys; 
But boils and simmers up, as if the heat
That warms her waves that motion did beget.
But where's the Wonder Eor it is well known
Warm, and clear Fountains in the Peak are none.
Which the whole Province thorough so abound,
Each Yeoman almost has them in his ground.
Take then the Wonder of this famous place;
This tepid Fountain a Twin-Sister has,
Of the same beauty and complexion,
That, bubbling six foot off, joins both in one
But yet so cold withal, that who will stride
When bathing, cross the Bath but half so wide,
Shall in one body, which is strange, endure
At once an Ague, and a Calenture. 
Strange, that two Sisters springing up at once,
Should differ thus in constitutions;
And would be stranger, could they be the same;
That Love should one half of the heart enflame,
Whilst th'other, senseless of a Lovers pain,
Freezes itself, and him in cold disdain;
Or that a Naiade, having careless play'd
With some male wanton stream, and fruitful made,
Should have her silver breasts, at once to flow,
One with warm Milk, th'other with melted Snow. 
Yet for the Patients 'tis more proper still,
Fit to enflame the blood is cold and chill,
And of the blood t'allay the glowing heat,
Wild youth, and yet wilder desires beget.
Hither the Sick, the Lame, and Barren come,
And hence go healthful, sound, and fruitful home.
Buxton's in beauty famous but in this
Much more, the Pilgrim never frustrate is,
That comes to bright St. Anne, when he can get
Nought but his pains from yellow Somerset. 
Nor is our Saint, though sweetly humble, shut
Within coarse walls of an indecent Hutt; 
But in the Centre of a Palace springs
A Mansion proud enough for Saxon Kings;
But by a Lady built, who rich and wise,
Not only Houses rais'd, but Families, 
More, and more great, than England that does flow
In Loyal Peers, can from one Fountain show.
But, either through the fault of th' Architect, 
The Workman's ignorance, knavery, or neglect;
Or through the searching nature of the Air, 
Which almost always breaths in Tempests there;
This Structure, which in expectation shou'd
Ages as many, as't has years have stood;
Chincked, and decay'd so dangerously fast,
And near a Ruin; till it came at last,
To be thought worth the Noble  Owners care,
New to rebuild, what Art could not repair,
As he has done, and like himself, of late
Much more commodious, and of greater state.
North-East from hence three Peakish Miles at least,
(Which who once measures will dread all the rest)
At th' instep of just such another Hill,
There creeps a Spring that makes a little† Rill,
Which at first sight to curious Visitors,
So small, and so contemptible appears,
They'd think themselves abus'd, did they not stay
To see wherein the wonder of it lay.
This Fountain is so very very small,
Th' Observer hardly can perceive it crawl
Thorough the sedge, which scarcely in their beds
Confess a Current by their waving heads.
I'th' Chinks through which it issues to the day,
It stagnant seems, and makes so little way,
That Thistle-down without a breeze of Air,
May lie at Hull, and be becalmed there;
Which makes the wary Owner of the ground,
For his Herds use the tardy Waves impound,
In a low Cistern of so small content
As stops so little of the Element 
For so important use, that when the Cup 
Is fullest crown'd, a Cow may drink it up.
Yet this so still, so very little Well,
Which thus beheld seems so contemptible,
No less of real Wonder does comprise,
Than any of the other Rarities 
For now, and then a hollow murmuring sound,
Being first heard remotely underground,
The Spring immediately swells, and straight
Boils up through several pores to such a height,
As, overflowing soon the narrow Shore, 
Below does in a little Torrent roar.
Whilst, near the Fountain mouth, the water sings
Thorough the secret Conduits of her Springs,
With such a harmony of various Notes,
As Grotto's yield, through narrow Brazen throats,
When, by weight of higher streams, the lower
Are upwards forc'd in an inverted shower.
But the sweet Music's short, three minutes space
To highest mark this Oceanite does raise,
And half that time retires the obbing waves,
To the dark windings of their frigid Caves. 
To seek investigable Causes out,
Serves not to clear, but to increase a doubt,
And where the best of Natures Spies but grope,
For me, who worst can speculate, what hope
To find the secret cause of these strange Tides 
Which an impenetrable Mountain hides
From all to view these Miracles that come,
In dark recesses of her spacious Womb.
And He who is in Nature the best read,
Who the best hand has to the wisest head,
Who best can think, and best his thoughts express,
Does but, perhaps, more rationally guess,
When he his fence delivers of these things,
And Fancy sends to search these unknown Springs. 
He tells us first, these flowing waters are
'Too sweet, their Fluxes too irregular,
To owe to Neptune these fantastic turns;
Nor yet does Phoebe with her silver horns,
In these free-franchis'd, subterranean Caves 
Push into crowded Tydes the frighted Waves.
But that the Spring swell'd by some smoking shower
That teeming clouds on Tellus surface power,
Marches amain with the confederate Force, 
Until some straighter passage in its course,
Stops the tumultuous throng, which pressing fast,
And forc'd on still to more precipitous hast,
By the succeeding streams lyes gargling there,
Till, in that narrow throat, th'obstructed Air,
Finding itself in too strict limits pent,
Opposes so th' invading Element, 
As first to make the half choked gullet heave,
And then disgorge the stream it can't receive.
Than this, of this Peak-Wonder, I believe
None a more plausible account can give.
Though here it might be said, if this were so,
It never would, but in wet weather flow;
Yet in the greatest droughts the Earth abides,
It never fails to yield less frequent Tides, 
Which always clear and unpolluted are,
And nothing of the wash of Tempest share.
But whether this a Wonder be; or no
'T will be one, Reader, if thou seest it flow;
For having been there ten times, for the nonce,
I never yet could see it flow but once,
And that the last time too, which made me there.
Take my last leave on't, as I now do here.
Hence two miles East, does a fourth Wonder lye.
Worthy the greatest curiosity,
Cal'd Elden-Hole; but such a dreadful place,
As will procure a tender Muse her grace,
In the description if she chance to fail,
When my hand trembles, and my cheeks turn pale.
Betwixt a verdant Mountains falling flanks,
And within bounds of easy swelling banks,
That hem the Wonder in on either side,
A formidable Scissor gapes so wide,
Steep, black, and full of horror, that who dare
Looks down into the Chasm, and keeps his hair
From lifting off his hat, either has none,
Or for more modish curls cashiers his own.
It were injurious I must confess,
By mine to measure braver Courages
But when I peep into't, I must declare,
My heart still beats, and eyes with horror stare.
And he, that standing on the brink of Hell, 
Can carry it so unconcern'd, and well,
As to betray no fear, is, certainly,
A better Christian; or a worse than I.
This yawning mouth is thirty paces long,
Scarce half so wide, within lin'd through with strong
Continuous Walls of solid perpend stone
A Gulf wide, steep, black, and a dreadful one;
Which few, that come to see it, dare come near,
And the most daring still approach with fear.
Having with terror, here beheld a space
The ghastly aspect of this dang'rous place;
Critical Passengers usually sound,
How deep the threatening gulf goes underground,
By tumbling down stones sought throughout the field,
As great as the officious Boores can wield,
Of which such Millions of Tons are thrown,
That in a Country, almost all of stone,
About the place they something scarce are grown.
But being brought, down they'r condemn'd to go,
When silence being made, and ears laid low,
The first's turn'd off, which, as it parts the Air,
A kind of sighing makes as if it were,
Capable of that useless passion, Fear.
Till the first hit strikes the astonished ear,
Like Thunder under-ground; thence it invades,
With louder thunders, those Tartarean shades,
Which groan forth horror, at each ponderous stroke
Th'unnatural issue gives the Parent Rock;
Whilst, as it strikes, the sound by turns we note,
When nearer slat, sharper when more remote,
As the hard walls, on which it strikes, are found
Fit to reverberate the bellowing sound
When, after falling long, it seems to hiss,
Like the old Serpent in the dark Abyss 
Till Echo, tir'd with posting, does refuse
To carry to th'inquisitive Perdu's, 
That couchant lye above, the trembling news.
And there ends our Intelligence, how far
It travails further, no one can declare;
Though if it rested here the place might well
Sure be accepted for a Miracle. 
Your Guide to all these Wonders, never fails
To entertain you with ridic'lous tales
Of this strange place, One of a Goose thrown in,
Which out of Peaks-Arse two miles off, was seen
Shell-naked sally, rifled of her plume;
By which a man may lawfully presume,
The owner was a woman grave, and wise,
Could know her Goose again in that disguise.
Another lying Tale the People tell,
And without smiling, of a pond'rous Bell 
By a long Rope let down the Pit to sound;
When many hundred fandoms underground
It stopped but though they made their sinews crack
All the men there could not once move it back;
Till, after some short space, the plundered line
With scores of curious knots made wond'rous fine,
Came up amain with easy motion
But for the Jangling Plummet, that was gone.
But with these idle Fables feign'd of old,
Some modern truths, and sad ones too are told
One of that mercenary Fool expos'd
His Life for gold, t'explore what lies enclos'd
In this obscure Vacuity, and tell
Of stranger sights than Theseus saw in Hell 
But the poor Wretch pay'd for his thirst of gain
For being cran'd up with a distemper'd brain,
A fault'ring tongue, and a wild staring look,
(Whether by damps not known, or horror strook)
Now this man was confederate with mischance 
'Gainst his own Life, his whole inheritance,
Which bates the pity human nature bears
To poor involuntary Sufferers 
But the sad tale of his severer fate
Whose story's next, compassion must create
He raving languish'd a few days, and then
Di'd; peradventure to go down agen.
In savages and in the silent deep,
Make the hard marble, that destroy'd him, weep.
A Stranger, to this day from whence not known.
Travelling this wild Country all alone,
And by the Night surpriz'd, by Destiny 
(If such a thing, and so unkind there be)
Was guided to a Village near this place,
Where asking at a house how far it was
To such a Town, and being told so far;
Will, you my friend, t'oblige a Traveller, 
Says the benighted Stranger, be so kind
As to conduct me thither; you will bind
My gratitude forever, and in hand,
Shall presently receive what you'l demand.
The fellow hum'd, and haw'd, and scratch'd his pate,
And, to draw on good wages, said 'twas late,
And grew so dark, that though he knew the way,
He durst not be so confident, to say
He might not miss it in so dark a night
But if his Worship would be pleas'd t'alight,
And let him call a Friend, he made no doubt,
But one of them would surely find it out.
The Traveller well pleased at any rate,
To have so expert Guides, dismounted straight,
Giving his horse up to the treach'rous slave,
Who having hous'd him, forthwith fell to heave
And poise the Portmantu, which finding freight
At either end with lumps of tempting weight,
The Devil and he made but a short dispute
About the thing they soon did execute
For calling th'other Rogue, who long had bin
His complice in preceding acts of sin,
He tells him of the prize, sets out the gain,
Shews how secure and easy to obtain;
Which pressed so home, where was so little need,
The strangers ruin quickly was decreed.
Thus to the poor proscrib'd, the Villains go,
And with joint confidence assure him so,
That with his hap to meet such friends content,
He put himself into their hands, and went.
The guilty night, as if she would express
Confederacy with such black purposes,
The sparkling Hemisphear had overspread
With darkest vapours from foul Lerna bred;
The world was hush't, all save a sighing wind,
That might have warn'd a more presaging mind,
When these two Sons of Satan, thus agreed,
With seeming wariness, and care proceed,
All the while mixing their amusing chat,
With frequent cautions of this step, and that;
Till having some six hundred paces gone,
Master here's but a scurvy grip, says one 
Of the damn'd Rogues (and he said very right)
Pray for more safety, Sir, be pleas'd t' alight,
And let him lead your Horse a little space,
Till you are past this one uneven place,
You'l need to light no more, Ile warrant you;
And still this instrument of Hell said true,
Forthwith alights the innocent Trapan'd, 
One leads his Horse, the other takes his hand,
And, with a shew of care, conducts him thus
To these steep thresholds of black Erebus 
And there (O act of horror which out-vies
The direst of inhumane cruelties!)
Let me (my Muse) repeat it without sin,
The barb'rous Villain pushed him headlong in.
The frighted wretch, having no time to speak,
Forc'd his distended throat in such a skriek,
As, by the shrillness of the doleful cry,
Pierc'd through, and through th'immense inanity, 
Informing so the half dead fallers Ear
What he must suffer, what he had to fear
When, at the very first befriending knock,
His trembling brains smear'd the Tarpeian Rock,
The shatter'd carcass downward rattles fast,
Whilst thence dismissed, the Soul with greater hast
From those infernal mansions does remove
And mounts to seek the happy seats above.
What bloody Arab of the fellest breed,
What but the yet more fell I—n seed,
Could once have meditated such a Deed 
But one of these Heaven's vengeance did ere long
Call to account for this poor creatures wrong.
Who hang'd for other Crimes, amongst the rest
This horrid murther at his death confessed
Whilst th'other Rogue, to Justice foul disgrace,
Yet lives, 'tis said unquestion'd near the place.
How deep this Gulph does travel underground,
Though there have been attempts, was never found
But I myself, with half the Peak surrounded,
Eight hundred, fourscore, and four yards have sounded,
And, though of these fourscore return'd back wet,
The Plummet drew, and found no bottom yet
Though when I went again another day,
To make a further, and a new essay,
I could not get the lead down half the way.
Enough of Hell! From hence you forward ride,
Still mounting up the Mountains groaning side,
Till having gain'd the utmost height, your Eye
North-ward a mile a  higher does descry,
And steeper much, though from that prospect green,
With a black, moorish Valley stretched between.
Unlike in stature, and in substance, this
To the South-East is a great precipice,
Not of firm Rock, like the rest here that shroud
Their lowering Summits in a dewy cloud
But of a shaly Earth, that from the crown
With a continual motion mouldering down,
Spawns a less Hill of looser mould below,
Which will in time tall as the Mother grow,
And must perpetuate the Wonder so.
Which Wonder is, That though this Hill nere cease
To wast itself, it suffers no decrease
But t'would a greater be, if those that pass
Should miss the Atomes of so vast a Mass 
Though Neighbours, if they nearer would enquire,
Must needs perceive the pilling Cliff retire
And the most cursory beholder may
Visibly see a manifest decay,
By Jutting stones, that by the Earth left bare
Hang on the trip suspended in the Air.
This haughty Mountain by indulgent Fame 
Prefer'd t'a Wonder, Mam-Tor has to name;
For in that Country Iargon's uncouth sense
Expressing any craggy eminence,
From Tower; but then why Mam I cann't surmise;
Unless because Mother to that does rise
Out of her ruins; better then to speak,
It might be call'd the Phoenix of the Peak; 
For when this Mountain by long wasting's gone.
Her ashes will, and not till then be one.
Which ere I quit, I must beg leave to tell
One story only of this Miracle. 
Of late a Country fellow, it seems one
Who had more courage, than discretion;
Untempted; or by wager; or by price,
And obstinately deaf to all Advice,
Would needs attempt to climb this precipice.
Thus then resolv'd th' Enceladus sets out,
With a Peak heart Heaven-defying stout,
A daring look, and vast Colossian strides,
To storm the frowning Mountains moldering sides.
Wherein the first steps of th' Adventurers proof,
Were easy, and encouraging enough,
Scarce Pent-house-steep, and ev'ry step did brand
Assured footing in the yielding sand;
And higher though much steeper; yet the Hill
By leaning backward gave him footing still;
Though still more tickle, and unsafe, as higher
The hair-brain'd fool did in's attempt aspire.
But being arriv'd to the stupendous place
Where the Cliffs beetle brows orelook his Base, 
The jutting front with threatening ruins there
Bad stand unto the bold Adventurer. 
Then from that stupefying height, too late,
Th' astonisht wretch saw his approaching Fate, 
Thence first he downward cast his woeful eyes,
Sadly to view the dang'rous precipice,
Which the bold stormer with such horror strook,
As all his Limbs with a cold trembling shook,
With so unseasonable an Ague fit,
That hands, and feet were ready hold to quit,
And to the Fool their Master's Fate submit.
How to advance a step he could not tell,
And to descend was as impossible
But thus environed with black despair,
He hung suspended in the liquid Air.
He then would fain have pray'd but Authors say,
Few of the Province gifted are that way,
And that to swear, curse, slaunder, and forswear
More natural is to your Peak Highlander; 
Though there are many virtuous people there.
But be it how it will, the fellow hung
On stretched-out sinews so exceeding long,
Till ready to drop off, Necessity
Bad mount, and live; or else fall down, and die
With last effort he upward then gan crawl,
To rise; or from a nobler height to fall;
And as he forward strove began to try
This, and that hanging stone's stability,
To prove their firmness, and to feel what hold
The Earth-bound ends had in the crumbling mold.
Some of which hanging Tables as he still
Made further progress up the trickling Hill,
He found so loose they threatened as he went,
To sweep him off, and be his Monument. 
But 'tis most certain that some other end,
In Fates dark leaves for the rash Fool is pend,
Not by a fall so noble, and so high,
Though by a slip perhaps 'twixt Earth, and Sky; 
For, to th' Spectators wonder, and his own,
He panting gain'd at last the Mountains Crown.
Hence an uneven mile below, in sight
Of this strange Cliff, and almost opposite,
Lies Castleton a place of noted fame,
Which from the Castle there derives its name.
Entering the Village presently y'are met
With a clear swift, and murm'ring Rivolet, 
Towards whose source if up the stream you look
On your right hand close by, your Eye is strook
With a stupendous Rock, raising so high
His craggy Temples tow'rds the Azure Sky
That if we this should with the rest compare,
They Hillocks, Mole-hills, Warts, and Pibbles are.
This, as if King of all the Mountains round,
Is on the top with an old Tower crown'd,
An Antic thing, fit to make people stare
But of no use, either in Peace; or War.
Under this Castle yawns a dreadful Cave, 
Whose sight may well astonish the most brave,
And make him pause, ere further he proceed
T'explore what in those gloomy vaults lie hid.
The Brook, which from one mighty Spring does flow,
Through a deep stony Channel runs below,
Whilst ore a Path level, and broad enough
For human Feet; or for the armed Hoof, 
Above you, and below all precipice,
You still advance towards the Court of Dis. 
Over this cawsey as you forward go,
On your right hand cross the deep course below,
You see the Fountains long imprison'd streams,
Leap out to wanton in the Sun's warm beams.
There through a marble Pipe some two foot wide,
And deeper than a Pikes-length can decide,
Sick of long wandering in those envious caves, 
She here disgorges her tumultuous waves,
With such a force, that if you coit a stone
Anything flat, although a heavy one,
Though the fall makes it sink, it will amain,
Like squeamish Patients throw it up again,
As a pale leaf, kill'd by the winters frown;
Nor, till it gain an Edge, receive it down.
So that it seems by the strange force it has,
Rising from such a pond'rous Mountains base,
As if prest down with the great weight, it thence
Deriv'd this supernatural violence.
Above the Spring, the Channel goes up still,
Dry now but which the Cave does sometimes fill
With such a roaring, and high swelling Tide, 
The tallest First-rate-Frigate there may ride.
Now to the Cave we come, wherein is found
A new strange thing, a Village underground;
Houses, and Barns for Men, and Beasts behoof, 
With distinct Walls, under one solid Roof. 
Stacks both of Hay, and Turf, which yields a scent
Can only fume from Satan's fundament;
For this black Cave lives in the voice of fame 
To the same sence by a yet coarser Name. 
The Subterranean People ready stand,
A Candle each, most two in either hand
To guide, who are to penetrate inclin'd,
The intestinum rectum of the Fiend. 
Thus, by a blinking and promiscuous light,
We now begin to travel into Night, 
Hoping indeed to see the Sun agen;
Though none of us can tell, or how, or when.
Now in your way a soft descent you meet,
Where the sand takes th'impression of your feet,
And which, ere many yards you measur'd have,
Brings you into the level of the Cave. 
Some paces hence the roof comes down so low,
The humblest statures are compell'd to bow,
First low, then lower; till at last we go
On four feet now who walked but now on two;
Then straight it lets you upright rise, and then
Forces you to stoop down, and creep agen;
Till to a silent Brook at last you come,
Whose limpid waves dart rays about the room
But there the Rock its bosom bows so low,
That few Adventurers further press to go;
Yet we must through; or else how can we give
Of this strange place a perfect Narrative
But how's the question; for the water's deep,
The bottom dipping, slippery, and steep,
Where if you slip, in ill hour you came hither,
You shoot under a Rock the Lord knows whither.
Then 'tis twelve paces broad, to that so low
The Rock does tow'rds the waters surface bow,
That who will pass in double dangers bound,
Rising he breaks his scull, he's stooping drown'd.
Thrice I the pass attempted with desire,
And thrice I did ingloriously retire;
Till shame did that my courage fail'd to do,
And, maugre difficulties, forc't me through.
As my foot chocked upon the further shoar,
My heart began to rise, was sunk before,
And as soon felt a new access of pain,
Now I was here, how to get back again.
And with good cause; for if (as sometimes here
By mounts of Sand within it does appear,
A rapid current Navigably deep
The sides, and bottom of the Cave does sweep)
There now should the least rill of water come
To fill the forenam'd very little room,
And higher should, but poor six inches, swell,
'Twould render all Retreat impossible.
But that thought comes too late, and they who take
A voyage once over the Stigyan Lake
(Where Souls forever usually remain)
Have better luck if they return again.
Being ore this dangerous pass, above us now
Are high-roof'd Vaults oh, for a Golden bough 
To charm the Train of that infernal God 
Who in these Caverns makes his dark abode!
The Cave is here not only high; but wide,
Stretching itself so far from side, to side,
As if (past these blind Creeks) we now were come
Into the hollow of the mountains Womb. 
The stately walls of diff'ring Fabric are,
One sloping, th' other perpendicular,
I Fabric say, because on the right hand,
If you will climb the Acherontic strand,
A curious Portal greets the wondering eye,
Where Architectures chiefest Symmetry 
Is everywhere observ'd, and serves to show
The poor design above to this below.
Two Tuscan Columns jutting from the wall,
With each his proper Base, and Capital, 
Support a well turn'd Arch, and of one piece,
With all its Mouldings, Frize, and Coronice. 
Oh, who that sees these things, but must reflect
With wonder on th' Almighty Architect, 
Whose works all humane Art so far excell
For doubtless he that Heaven made, made Hell. 
This leads into a handsom Room, wherein
A Bason stands with waters Crystalline,
To welcome such, as, once at least, shall grace
With unknown light this solitary place.
On this side many more small Grotto's are,
Which, were the first away, would all seem rare
But, that once seen, we may the rest pass by,
As hardly worth our curiosity.
But we must back, ere we can forward go,
Into the Channel we forsook below;
Through which the rugged pass does only lye
T' a further, and compleat discovery.
Being return'd, we now again proceed
Thorough a Vale that's salebrous indeed,
Squeezing our guts, bruising our flesh and bones,
To thrust betwixt massy, and pointed stones
Some three, some four, and others five foot high,
Puffing, and sweating in our industry;
Till after three, or fourscore paces more,
We reach the second Rivers marble shoar,
Four times as broad, as that we past before.
The waters margent here goes down so steep,
That at first step you chop in middle deep;
But, though the way be cumbersom, and rough,
'Tis nowhere more, and foardable enough.
This, as the other clear, differs in this,
That bottom is of Sand, this stony is,
And here withal the water is so strong,
That as you raise one foot to move along,
Without good heed, you will have much ado
To fix the other foot from rising too,
And yet there is no current here, nor spring
T' occasion such an unexpected thing;
For, though the Country People are so wise
To call these Rivers, they'r but Stagnancies, 
Left by the flood; which, when retir'd again,
The Cave does in her hollow lap retain.
As here through cobling stones we stumbling wade,
The narrowing Cave cast such a dreadful shade,
That being thence unable to discover,
With all our lights how far the Lake was over,
We made a halt, and, as the rest desir'd,
I now half willing was to have retir'd,
And had not Resolution then stept in,
The great Adventure had not finisht bin.
But ore we got, and from our cloaths there rain'd
A welcome showr upon the thirsty Sand,
Of which we here vast Mountains saw by Seas 
Of Torrents washt from distant Provinces; 
For the hard ribs of the Caves native stone
So solid is, that that I'me sure yields none.
Over these Hills we forward still contend,
Wishing, and longing for our Journeys end,
Till now again we saw the Rock descend
Forming a Roof so even, smooth, and sleek,
Without, or crack, or seam, or chink, or nick,
Some twenty paces long, and ten foot high,
As the Mechanick Trowel may defy.
I'th midst of which a Cupolo does rise,
(As if to crown the other rarities)
In th'exact hollow of a weighty Bell, 
Which does in beauty very much excell
All Iere saw before, excepting none,
Though I have been at Lincoln, and at Roane. 
Just beyond this a purling Rill we meet,
Which, though scarce deep enough to wet our feet,
Had they been dry, must be a River too,
And has more title than the other two;
Because this runs, which neither of them do.
Though ev'ry Kennel that we see does pour
More liberal streams in ev'ry Thunder-showr. 
Just where 'tis met, as if to shun the light,
It underground vanishes out of sight;
We take the obvious stream to be our guide, 
Sand-hills, and Rocks by turns on either side,
Plashing through water, and through slabby Sand,
Tilla vast Sand-hill once more bids us stand;
For here again, who ere shall try will know,
The humorous Rock descends so very low,
That the swoln floods when they in fury rave
Throw up this Mount, that almost choaks the Cave. 
Where, though the Brook offer'd to guide us still,
Through a blind Creek o'th right hand of this Hill; 
We thought it not prudence to follow it,
Unlikely we conceiv'd our bulks t'admit
But storm'd the Hill, which rising fast, and steep
So near the Rock we on all four must creep,
It on the other side as fast does dip;
And to reward us for the mighty pain,
Brought us unto our little Nymph again.
Which we some paces follow'd still, when there
A suddain noise striking th' astonish't ear,
We neither could guess what, nor tell from whence,
Strook us into amazement, and suspence.
We stood all mute, and pallid with the sight;
A paleness so increast by paler light,
hat ev'ry wand a Caduce did appear,
As we a Caravan of dead folks were
But really so terrible a sound
Sure ne're was heard above, or underground.
To which the difficulties we had had,
And horror of the place did so much add,
That it was long before a word came out
To ask a question, or resolve a doubt.
But, by some one, the silence being broke,
We altogether in confusion spoke
But all cross purpose, not a word of sence,
Either to get, or give intelligence.
So when a tall, and richly laden Ship,
Plowing the Sea with all her sails a-trip,
Suddenly strikes upon some unseen Rock,
Her seams laid open by the pondrous shock,
The Passengers, and Seamen tear their throats
In confus'd cries, and undistinguisht Notes.
Some thought a flood was just now breaking in,
Some that Pyracmon had at th'anvile bin,
With Brontes forging thunderbolts for Iove, 
Or for some Heroe arms i'th world above;
Some said it thundred; others this, and that,
Every one fear'd; but not a man knew what.
Till at the last, a little calmer grown,
Again we list'ned, then spake one by one;
Began to think, and temp'rately debate,
What we were best to do in this estate.
The major Vote was quickly to retire,
Which also those oppos'd it, did desire;
Though in the end we all agreed to see
What the great cause of this strange noise might be,
Nor were we long in doubt; for ere we had
But twenty paces further progress made,
Before our eyes we saw it plain appear,
And then were out of count'nance at our fear.
On the right hand an open passage lies
Where once again the Roof does sloping rise
In a steep craggy, and a lubrick shoar,
As high at least, as any where before;
Where from the very top of all the Hill, 
A murm'ring fountain does her streams distill,
Which thence descending with a headlong wave,
Roars in remoter windings of the Cave; 
Though here it does in gentle whispers brawl
Through little stones, and is scarce heard at all.
The water falling down so silent here,
And roaring louder than the Thunderer 
At a remoter distance, seems, as if
The Crystal stream, that trickles from the Cliff, 
Were a Catarrh, that falling from the Brain
Upon his leathern lungs, did thus constrain
The Fiend to cough so very loud, and tear
His marble throat, and fright th' Adventurer. 
But if this liquid Cave does any where
Deserve the title of a Grot, 'tis here,
For here as from her Vrn the Nymph doer pour,
The water breaks on Rocks in such a showr,
Sparkling quite round the place, as made us doubt
T'would hazard spitting all our Candles out,
Which had it hapned so, we fairly might
Have bid unto the World a long good night.
Wherefore it did concern us to make hast,
And thus we have the third fam'd River past.
Up the old Channel still we forward tend,
Wondering, and longing when our search should end;
For we were all grown weary of the night,
And wisht to see the long forsaken light.
And, Reader, now the happy time draws near
To end your trouble, as it did our fear
For many paces more we had not gone,
Before we came to a large vault of stone
Curiously arch't, and wall'd on either side,
Some thirty paces long, and thirteen wide,
Scarce ten foot high, which does deprive the place
Unhappily of due proportions grace.
This full of water stands, but yet so clear
That thorough it the bottom does appear
So smooth, and even laid with glittering Sand,
That the most timerous will not make a stand
But boldly step into't, to see the end
To which all these so strange Meanders tend.
The first step's ancle deep, the next may be
To the midleg, and nowhere past the knee,
Saving, that at the very end of all,
Where the Rock meets us with an even wall,
Under the foot, and in the midst of it,
There is a pretty semi-circular pit,
About some four foot wide, and six foot deep,
Which underneath the Basis dipping steep,
And the impending Rock at least three foot
Descending with a sharp round Peak into't.
Shuts up the Cave, and, with our own desire
Kindly complying, bids us to retire.
Nor did we there make any longer stay,
Than only stooping with our sticks t'essay
If pottering this, and that way, we could find
How deep it went; or which way it did wind.
Though 'twas in vain; for the low bending Rock
Did those ridiculous endeavours mock.
This the fourth River is, although of more
Than three, and one unfoardable, before
None ever heard, and if a further shoar,
Belong to this, none ever past it ore;
Nothing with Legs, and Arms can come unto't,
They must be Finns, and 'tis a Fish must do't.
But I am well assured none ever was
Till now so far in this unwholsome place,
From whence with falls, and knocks though almost lame,
We faster much retreated, than we came,
And measuring it, as we return'd again,
Found it five hundred paces by the Chain. 
We now once more behold the chearful Sun, 
And one would think 'twere time we here had done
But ere I go I must one story tell
Concerns the place; so great a Miracle 
As can't omitted be without offence,
It being an effect of Providence. 
The Tow'r that stands on tip-toe in the Air,
And ore the Channel perpendicular,
Is on a Hill by't self, though not so high
By infinite degrees, as one close by,
A narrow Valley interpos'd between
But this is all a Crag, the other green.
On ev'ry side from this old Castle down,
Is perfect Cliff, except towards the Town, 
Where the ascent is steep; but in the Rock,
Forc'd by the pond'rous Hammers conqu'ring stroak,
A winding way from the rough Mountains foot.
Was made the only Avenue unto't.
'Tis true, that, just over the Cave, the Hill 
In an extended ridg continues still
But to so small a Neck's contracted there,
The Tower blocks the pass up with one square. 
And yet that once there has a Passage been
Into the Fort this way, is to be seen
By ribbs of Arches standing of free-stone,
On which a Bridge has formerly been thrown
Over a Graff parts the Hills double-crown 
But if by Art, or Nature made, not known;
It now with Docks, and Thistles is oregrown.
On one hand of this Bridge, a Cliff does fall
Ore the Caves mouth steep, as a perpend wall,
On th'other hand one very near as steep
Looks down into the Vale; but not so deep;
For I am most assur'd, that we did go
Under the Vale when in the Cave below,
And the whole distance not twelve paces is
Betwixt the one, and th'other Precipice. 
This Valley (which by the Caves-way is known,)
Is one of the chief passes to the Town, 
And where it more remotely does begin
Gently to dimple these two Hills between,
Falls with so easy a descent, as nere
Could trouble the most Southern Traveller 
But that ore-slipt, his neck must dearly pay
The rashness, if he will attempt that way.
A Countrey-fellow some years since, who was
Nothing a stranger to the tickle pass, 
Being by h's Master sent some friends to guide
Ore those wild Mountains of the Forrest wide,
By them was so rewarded, as to make
Him, who had guided them, his way mistake
For coming back, when Night the day had clos'd
Careless, and drunk enough may be suppos'd,
He learnedly the Pass did overshoot,
Thinking he was not yet arriv'd unto't
But trotted on along the Mountains ridge, 
Until he came almost unto the Bridge 
Close by the Tower, which though it could not be
Thirty yards off, it seems he could not see,
To that degree either the Mists or Night; 
Or his Potation did obstruct his sight.
But here he thought to turn into the Vale,
Although his Mare who, having had no Ale, 
Was unto both their safeties more awake,
At first refus'd the dang'rous step to take;
Like unto peevish Balaam's faithful Asse, 
Who more clear-sighted than the Prophet was,
Proving her rider so, for once at least,
If not the greater Asse, the greater Beast. 
But being spur'd up to the place again,
Angry it seems her counsel was not tane,
She took a greater leap against her will,
Than Pegasus from the 'other bi-top Hill,
With all th'advantage that he had of Wing, 
When from his Pinch started the Poets Spring. 
And from the giddy height, the Lord knew whither,
Down with a vengeance they both went together.
Where they did part, himself could nere declare;
If on some Rub by th'way; or in the Air
But at the bottom he was left for dead,
With a good Memorandum on his head,
That lay'd him so asleep, he did not wake
Till with the cold his bones began to ake
And then he stirr'd, rowling his heavy eye
Towards the vault of the enamell'd skie,
Which now thick set with sparkling Stars he sees,
That but of late had been no friends of his,
And, by the favour of the twinkling light,
The Castle too appear'd above in sight.
By which he faintly recollected where
His Worship was, though not how he came there
But this small sence did opportunely come
To help him make a shift to stumble home.
Thither he comes, and knocking at the door
(Though not so hard as he was knockt before)
His Master hears at first, and cries Who's there 
Why (poorly cries the other) I am here. 
Up starts the Master straight, and lets him in;
I'th' Name of God (quoth he) where hast thou bin, 
That thou'rt thus late to which the wise Reply
Was this, Nay Master what the Dee'l know I
But somewhere I have had a lungeous faw
I'm sure O that, and, Master, that's neet aw.
A Candle then was lighted when his sconce
Did represent Raw-head, and Bloody-bones. 
A lungeous fall indeed, the Master said, 
Thy very looks would make a man afraid,
Thou hast drank deep, thy Hogs-head on the tilt,
But where's my Mare No matter where hoo's kilt,
Replies the man, i'th' morninck send, and see,
The Devils power go with these Torrs for me.
His Dame was call'd, and he soon got to bed,
Where she did wash, and dress his great Calves-head. 
So well, that in the morning 'twas his care
To go, and fley, not to fetch home his Mare 
But she had shar'd his fortune, and was found
Grazing within the Valley safe and sound,
Sans hurt, or blemish, save a little strip
Of hair and skin rippled upon her hip.
The hat, saddle and cloth, denoted well,
As they were scatter'd found, just where they fell,
And yet as oft, as I the place do view,
I scarce believe, although I know this true
But whosoever shall happen to come there,
Will not reprove what I've deliver'd here;
Since with his Eyes he may the place behold,
And hear this truth affirm'd, that I have told.
Southward from hence ten miles, where Derwent laves
His broken Shoars with never clearing waves,
There stands a stately, and stupendious Pile 
Like the proud Regent of the Brittish Isle,
Shedding her beams over the barren Vale,
Which else bleak winds, and nipping Frosts assail
With such perpetual War, there would appear
Nothing but Winter ten months of the year.
This Palace, with wild prospects girded round,
Stands in the middle of a falling ground,
At a black Mountains foot, whose craggy brow
Secures from Eastern-Tempests all below,
Under whose shelter Trees and Flowers grow,
With early Blossom, maugre native snow;
Which elsewhere round a Tyranny maintains,
And binds crampt Nature long in Crystal-Chains. 
The Fabric's noble Front faces the Pest, 
Turning her fair broad shoulders to the East, 
On the South-side the stately Gardens lye,
Where the scorn'd Peak rivals proud Italy. 
And on the North sev'ral inferior plots 
For servile use do scatter'd lye in spots.
The outward Gate stands near enough, to look
Her Oval Front in the objected Brook; 
But that she has better reflexion
From a large Mirror nearer of her own.
For a fair Lake, from wash of Floods unmixt,
Before it lies, an Area spread betwixt.
Over this Pond, opposite to the Gate,
A Bridge of a queint structure, strength, and state,
Invites you to pass over it, where dry
You trample may on shoals of wanton Fry, 
With which those breeding waters do abound,
And better Carps are nowhere to be found.
A Tower of Antic Model the Bridge foot
From the Peak-rabble does securely shut,
Which, by stone stairs, delivers you below
Into the sweetest Walks the world can stow.
There Wood and Water, Sun and Shade contend,
Which shall the most delight, and most befriend;
There Grass, and Gravel in one path you meet,
For Ladies tend'rer, and mens harder feet.
Here into open Lakes the Sun may pry,
A priviledge the closer Groves deny,
Or if confed'rate winds do make them yield
He then but chequers what he cannot guild.
The Ponds, which here in double order shine,
Are some of them so large, and all so fine,
That Neptune in his progress once did please
To frolick in these artificial Seas; 
Of which a noble Monument we find,
His Royal Chariot left, it seems, behind;
Whose wheels and body moor'd up with a Chain,
Like Drake's old Hulk at Deptford, still remain.
No place on Earth was ere discover'd yet,
For contemplation, or delight so fit.
The Groves, whose curled brows shade every Lake, 
Do everywhere such waving Landskips make,
As Painters baffl'd Art is far above,
Who waves, and leaves could never yet make move.
Hither the warbling People of the Air
From their remoter Colonies repair,
And in these shades, now setting up their rests,
Like Caesars Swiss, burn their old native nests.
The Muses too pearch on the bending spraies
And in these thickets chant their charming Laies; 
No wonder then if the†Heroick Song 
That here took birth, and voice do flourish long.
To view from hence the glittering Pile above
(Which must at once wonder create, and love)
Environ'd round with Natures shames, and Ills,
Black Heaths, wild Rocks, bleak Craggs, and naked Hills,
And the whole Prospect so informe, and rude
Who is it, but must presently conclude
That this is Paradice, which seated stands
In midst of Desarts, and of barren Sands. 
So a bright Diamond would look, if set
In a vile socket of ignoble jet, 
And such a face the new-born Nature took,
When out of Chaos by the Fiat strook.
Doubtless, if any where, there never yet
So brave a Structure on such ground was set,
Which sure the Foundress built, to reconcile
This to the other members of the Isle, 
And would therein, first her own Grandeur show,
And then what Art could, spite of Nature, do.
But let me lead you in, 'tis worth the pains
T'examine what this Princely House contains,
Which, if without so glorious to be seen,
Honour and Vertue, make it shine within.
The fore-nam'd outward Gate then leads into
A spacious Court, whence open to the view
The noble Front of the whole Aedifice, 
In a surprising height, is seen to rise.
Even with the Gate-house, upon either hand
A neat square Turret in the corners stand,
On each side Plats of ever-springing green,
With an ascending Pavier-Walk between?
In the green Plat which on the right hand lies,
A Fountain of strange structure, high doth rise,
Upon whose slender top, there is a vast,
I'd almost said, prodigious Bason plac't;
And, without doubt, the Model of this Piece. 
Came from some other place, than Rome, or Greece, 
For such a Sea suspended in the Air,
I never saw in any place, but there.
Which should it break, or fall, I doubt we shou'd
Begin to reckon from the second Flood. 
Though this divert the eye; yet all the while
Your feet still move towards th'attractive Pile, 
Till fair round Stairs, some fifteen grieses high,
Land you upon a Terrass, that doth lie
Of goodly breath along the Buildings square, 
Well pav'd, and fenc't with Rail, and Baluster. 
From hence in some three steps the inner-Gate 
Rises in greater Beauty, Art, and State,
Than the proud Palace of the Sun, and all
Vain Poets stuff vainer Romance withall?
A vice that much the Gallick muse infects,
And of good Writers, makes vile Architects. 
This to the Lodg admits, and two steps more
Set you upon a level axler floor,
Which paves the inner Court, a curious place
Form'd by the am'rous structure's kind embrace.
I'th' Center of this shady Court doth rise
Another Fountain, of a quaint device
Which large-limb Heroes, with Majestick port
In their habilliments of War support.
Hence, cross the Court, through a fine Portico 
Into the Body of the House you go,
Where a proud Hall does not at all abate
Anything promis'd by the outward State,
And where the Reader we entreat will please
By the large Foot, to measure Hercules; 
For sure a vain, and endless work it were
T'insist upon ev'ry particular.
And should I be so mad to go about
To give account of ev'ry thing throughout,
The Rooms of State, Stair cases, Galleries, 
Lodgings, Apartments, Closets, Offices;
Or to describe the splendors undertake
Which ev'ry glorious Room, a Heaven make,
The Picture, Sculpture, Carving, Graving, Guilding, 
T'would be as long in Writing as Building.
Yet Chatsworth, though thy pristine lineaments
Were beautiful, and great to all intents
I needs must say, for I have seen both Faces, 
Thou'rt much more lovely in the modern graces
Thy now great Mistriss has adorn'd thee in,
Than when thought fine enough to hold a†Queen. 
Thy Foundress drest thee in such Robes, as they
In those old fashion'd Times, reputed gay,
Of which new stript, and the old rusling pride
Of Ruff, and Farthingale now laid aside,
Thy shapes appear, and thou thy self art seen
A very Christian, and a modish Queen
Which (though old friends part ill) is recompence
For a few Goth, and Vandal ornaments
And all these glories glitter to the sight
By the advantage of a clearer light.
The Glaziers work before substantial was
I must confess, thrice as much lead, as glass,
Which in the Suns Meridian, cast a light,
As it had been within an hour of night.
The windows now look like so many Suns,
Illustrating the noble Room at once
The primitive Casements modell'd were no doubt
By that through which the Pigeon was thrust out,
Where now whole Shashes are but one great eye, 
T'examine, and admire thy beauties by.
And, if we hence look out, we shall see there
The Gardens too i'th Reformation share
Upon a Terrass, as most Houses high,
Though from this prospect humble to your eye,
A stately Plat, both regular, and vast
Suiting the rest, was by the F•undress cast,
In those incurious times, under the Rose
Design'd, as one may saucily suppose,
For Lillies, Pionies, Daffodills, and Roses
To garnish Chimneys, and make Sunday Posies,
Where Gooseberries as good, as ever grew
'Tis like were set; for Winter-greens the Yew, 
Holly, and Box for then these things were new.
With oh! the honest Rosemary and Bays, 
So much esteem'd in those good Wassel days.
Now in the middle of this great Parterre, 
A Fountain darts her streams into the Air
Twenty foot high; till by the Winds deprest,
Unable longer upward to contest,
They fall again in tears for grief, and ire
They cannot reach the place they did aspire.
As if the Sun melted the waxen wings
Of these Icarian temerarious springs?
For braving thus his generative ray,
When their true motion lies another way.
Th'ambitious Element repulsed so
Rallies, and saves her routed waves below,
In a large Bason of Diameter 
Such as old Romes expensive Lakes did bear,
Where a Pacifick Sea expanded lies,
A liquid Theater for Naumachies; 
And where in case of such a Pageant War,
Romans in statue still spectators are.
Where the ground swells nearer the Hill above,
And where once stood a Cragg and Cherry Grove, 
(Which of renown then shar'd a mighty part)
In stead of such a barbarous piece of Art, 
Such poor contriv'd, dwarfish and ragged shades,
Tis now adorn'd with Fountains and Cascades, 
Terass on Terass with their Stair-Cases 
Of brave, and great contrivance, and to these
Statues, Walks, Grass-plats, and a Grove indeed
Where silent Lovers may lye down and bleed.
And though all things were, for that Age, before
In truth so great, that nothing could be more;
Yet now they with much greater lustre stand,
Toucht up, and finisht by a better hand.
But that which crowns all this, and does impart
A Lustre far beyond the pow'r of Art, 
Is the great Owner, He, whose noble mind
For such a Fortune only was design'd.
Whose bounties as the Oceans bosom wide,
Flow in a constant, unexhausted Tyde 
Of Hospitality and free Access, 
Liberal Condescension, Cheerfulness, 
Honour and Truth, as ev'ry of them strove
At once to captivate Respect and Love
And all with such Order perform'd, and Grace 
As rivett Wonder to the stately place.
But I must give my Muse the Hola here,
Respect must check her in the wild Career; 
For when we impotently do commend,
The thing well meant, ill done, must needs offend;
His Vertues are above my Character,
Too great for Fame to speak; or Verse to bear.