"How erring oft the judgment in its hate
Or fond desire! Those slow-descending showers,
Those hovering fogs, that bathe our growing vales...
In deep November (loath'd by trifling Gaul,
Effeminate ), are gifts the Pleiads shed,
Britannia's handmaids : as the beverage falls
Her hills rejoice, her valleys laugh and sing.
Hail, noble Albion! Where no golden mines,
No soft perfumes, nor oils, nor myrtle bowers.
in The Fleece by John Dyer (1699-1757)