yce,
Her joyes are still untymelye;
Before her hope, behind remorse,
Fayre first, in fyne unseemely.

Edmund Spenser (1598) describes a garden in _The Faerie Queene_:

There the most daintie Paradise on ground
It selfe did offer to his sober eye,
In which all pleasures plenteously abownd,
And none does others' happinesse envye;
The painted flowres, the trees upshooting hye,
The dales for shade, the hilles for breathing space,
The trembling groves, the christall running by,
And, that which all fair workes doth most aggrace,
The art which all that wrought appeared in no place.

Mountain scenery was seldom visited or described.

Michael Drayton (1731) wrote an ode on the Peak, in Derbyshire:

Though on the utmost Peak
A while we do remain,
Amongst the mountains bleak
Exposed to sleet and rain,
No sport our hours shall break
To exercise our vein.

It is clear that he preferred his comfort to everything, for he goes
on:

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.

William Drummond (1746) avowed a taste which he knew to be very
unfashionable:

Thrice happy he, who by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own
Though solitary, who is not alone,
But doth converse with that eternal love.
O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan
Or the soft sobbings of the widow'd dove,
Than those smooth whisp'rings near a prince's throne....
O how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath
And sighs perfum'd, which new-born flowers unfold.

Another so