Right in the centre of the vale empight,
Not distant far a  rose;
In outward form presenting to the sight
That fam'd  hill, on whose fair brows
The  wont repose;
List'ning to sweet  sounding stream,
Which through the plains of  murm'ring flows;
But This to That compar'd mote justly seem
Ne fitting haunt for gods, ne worthy man's esteem.