Those numbers they will hit, out of their genuine vein
Which many wise and learn'd can hardly e'er attain.
Anodd gwybod pa mor aml yr oedd Drayton
a'i dafod yn ei foch wrth draethu'r pethau clod
forus hyn, ond yn ddiau yr oedd y "noble
Britons" a'u deallai wrth eu bodd yn eu
gwrando! Buasai'n ddiddorol canlyn y bardd
drwy'r Siroedd, ond digoned rhoddi disgrifiad
gwynt y Gogledd o Ddyffryn Clwyd:
Dear Clwyd, th' abundant sweets that from thy bosom flow,
When with my active wings into the air I throw,
Those hills whose hoary heads seem in the clouds to dwell,
Of age'd become young, enamour'd with the smell
Of th' odoriferous flowers in thy most precious lap;
Within whose velvet leaves, when I myself enwrap,
They suffocate with scents; that (from my native kind)
I seem some slow perfume, and not the swiftest wind.
With joy, my Dyffryn Clwyd, I see thee bravely spread,
Surveying every part from foot up to thy head;
Thy full and youthful breasts, which in their meadowy pride,
Are brancht with rivery veins, meander-like that glide.