Even as the waves of brainless butter'd fish,
With bugle horne writ in the Hebrew tongue,
Fuming up flounders like a chafing-dish,
That looks asquint upon a Three-mans song:
Or as your equinoctiall pasticrust
Projecting out a purple chariot wheele,
Doth squeeze the spheares, and intimate the dust,
The dust which force of argument doth feele:
Even so this Author, this Gymnosophist,
Whom no delight of travels toyle dismaies,
Shall sympathize (thinke reader what thou list)
Crownd with a quinsill tipt with marble praise.
Cabalistical Verses
John Hoskyns (c17)
I've lost the link, because I found this long ago and saved it as text, but thanks, whoever you are....
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Today's picture comes from Blows Down ( map ), a remote windy outcrop near Luton. It was at this historic spot, in 1783, that Sir Hector...
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