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

Thomas Carew (1639) sings:

Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose,
For in your beauties' orient deep
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.
Ask me no more whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day,
For in pure love Heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me no more whither doth haste
The nightingale, when May is past,
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters and keeps warm her note.
Ask me no more where these stars shine
That downwards fall in dead of night,
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become, as in their sphere.
Ask me no more if east or west
The phoenix builds her spicy nest,
For unto you at last she flies
And in your fragrant bosom dies.